


An Unconventional Partnership

by Rosslyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV), White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Fluff, Heist, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosslyn/pseuds/Rosslyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's Number comes up. In order to save Caffery and Burke, Finch and Reese find themselves involved in an art heist, with murderous intent.</p><p>Or:</p><p>Where Reese asks to sleep in Finch's bed, Finch cooks Reese breakfast, Carter underestimates White Collar division, Peter gets attacked, Jones and Diana help to steal the painting, Mozzie sweeps the floor, Finch plays god, and Neal strips off Peter's shirt. Stranger things have happened in fanfics...</p><p>POI/WC crossover, can be read as a standalone fic in either fandoms. NOW COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Chinese translation available HERE](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=86455&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D34%26typeid%3D34) by candy1020

The morning started ordinary enough. Reese walked into the library just as Finch was finishing attaching pictures onto the glass wall, and the latter man did not show surprise at all when Reese handed him his customary tea.

"We have a new number, Mr. Reese," Finch told him, all the while never removing his eyes from the wall. "And a potentially complicated one, at that."

"Aren't they all?" Reese drawled. Finch ignored him.

"Neal Caffery," Finch pointed at a picture of a handsome man with boyish features. Young, with a charming smile. "Also known as Nick Halden, amongst other aliases. Impressive criminal record."

"Mmm. So he's more a threat to others than himself?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to draw conclusions." Finch glances at the wall, his expression clouded. "Mr. Caffery is currently working for the FBI as a Confidential Informant in the White Collar division. It is perfectly possible that someone wants him dead."

"The FBI." Reese grinned humourlessly. "Always loved to deal with the feds."

Finch looked at him, expression indecipherable. "I think he's one of the good ones, Mr. Reese."

"How so?"

"In his impressive criminal record," Finch clicked away at the computer and pages after page of conviction records fly by, "he's never resorted to violent crime. Forgeries, art heists, long cons - I'd say he's clever, resourceful in his doings, but not the kind of person that the Machine would consider a threat."

"Wow, Finch." Reese raised his coffee in a slightly mocking gesture, "I've never heard such high praise from you, let alone about a Number."

"There is one potential problem though." Finch appeared not to have heard him. He pulled another picture off the table and taped it to the wall. It was an older man with kind features, smiling a wry smile. "Agent Peter Burke, his associate and handler at the White Collar division."

"Hmmm. Likely threat to our Number."

"Quite the opposite. From what I have seen, it seems that Agent Burke looks out for Mr. Caffery, protects him, even."

"A job contender." Reese contemplated for a moment, and grinned again, this time with real humour. "This is a stand-off then. I always wanted to find out which type of training offered the best protection - FBI, or the CIA."

Finch spun around, looking alarmed. "Please don't fight over the territory, or it could cause more trouble than we want."

"Oh, I won't." Reese flashed his teeth in a bright smile, "Mr. Caffery is just about to get lucky."

 

*

Neal Caffery sneezed. It was the sixth time today, and he felt a cold shiver going down his spine. Next to his desk, Jones snorted.

"Coming down with a cold, Caffery?"

"I'll make sure I disinfect all the surfaces that I touch, Jones." Neal replied amicably.

Inside the glass wall, Peter was watching him with worried eyes. Then he gave him the finger.

"Are you alright, Neal?" The concern was palpable from Peter's voice. "You've been looking unwell for the past few days."

"Ah, I'm fine." Neal waved it off, "It's probably from that pursuit in the rain a couple of days back. Stylish my hat maybe, it doesn't serve the same purpose as an umbrella."

Across the desk, Peter's mouth pressed into a thin line. "You let me know if you feel wrong, or you need a few days off, you hear?"

"Yes sir." Neal made a mock salute, started to make way out of the office, then stopped. "Actually, I have been feeling a bit off the last couple of days."

"Oh?" Peter furrows his brows in concern.

"Yeah. The hairs keep standing on the back of my neck. I feel like I'm being watched all the time - you haven't been tracking my ankle monitor all day, have you?" Neal grinned, a touch mischievously.

Peter sighed. "Away with you now. Don't wipe any snot on my desk."

Keeping his grin wide, Neal closed the door behind him.

*

 

"You'll need physical access to jack any FBI issued phone, Mr. Reese," said Finch in his ear.

Reese strode down the street, his eyes fixed on the younger man coming the other way, and replied, "Not a problem, Finch."

He deliberately bumped into Neal a minute later, spilling coffee on Neal's shoe. "I am sorry," he mumbled, offering a handkerchief. "Here, let me help..."

"Oh no, don't bother," came the cheery reply, "but if you could let go of my phone and return it to me, that would be great."

Reese looked up. Neal was grinning at him. "You have good skills. Just give me back my phone, and I won't tell. "

"Well well, he was a con-man, Mr. Reese," Finch commented dryly in Reese's ear.

Reese hesitated for a moment, then grinned back. "OK, you caught me. A fellow man of the trade?"

Neal smiled wide and gave no reply. "Thank you." He took his phone graciously, nodded, and walked off.

"What are you going to do now, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice rang in his ear again, deliberately flat, as to not hurt his feelings.

Reese smirked.

"Who says I need to do anything else?" Reese glanced down at his phone, and the screen flashed 'Forced Pairing complete'. "I only needed to borrow his phone for a few seconds, and few seconds he gave."

"Very good, Mr. Reese."

"I try, Harold, I try."

A second or two of amiable silence passed, and Finch spoke again. "It won't be easy to spy on the FBI building, though. Any ideas?"

"A few."

"Should I grab my workman suit and order for a custom built coffee machine again?"

"That'd be the best." Reese turned to hail a cab. "Knowing FBI offices, they are always in need of a good coffee machine."

*

 

"We really need a good coffee machine," Peter pondered out loud. "Maybe I should file a report saying how integral good coffee is to our conviction rates."

Near where he stood, Neal held a cup of his own and suddenly shuddered.

"Is it really that bad?" Peter's eyebrow nearly shot off into his hair, "I know you are man of fine taste, Neal, but it can't be that bad, can it?"

"No," Neal rubbed his neck absently, glancing around. After a second or two he snapped back into the present. "Well, yes, it is very bad, but I usually hide my distaste of office coffee in front of people who have no access to the better kind."

"Thanks for rubbing it in," Peter said sarcastically. "Why are you all agitated?"

"Still feel like I'm being watched," said Neal simply. "It's been three days and I haven't been able to figure out who."

"A secret admirer?" Peter teased, "Wouldn't be the first time."

Neal gave him a dirty look. "A secret stalker, more like. Anyway I don't feel flattered by this feeling. Something's off..." his voice trailed off, and both of them look around the office, deep in their respective thoughts.

 

*

 

"Our friend is hyper vigilant," said Finch, turning briefly to meet Reese's eye.

"Or he could be paranoid," Reese replied. "We have only been watching him for a couple of hours, at best."

"Interesting office dynamics they have there," Finch said inconsequentially. Reese glanced at him, and could not tell whether the man spoke in admiration or reproach.

"Certainly more loving than the office environment here."

This time Finch turned to look at him fully. "Do we not get on amiably, Mr. Reese?"

"I don't know, Mr. Finch," said Reese airily, "do you mind if I asked about your secret admirers?"

"Point." Finch returned his gaze to the monitor. "Although I have none to share."

Reese grinned. "Admirers always upfront about their intentions, then?"

Finch gave him an equal dirty look. "There's quite no need of that, Mr. Reese. I consider what you and I have rather unique, a dynamic that needs to bear no resemblance to what others may have."

Reese raised an eyebrow. "Really, Finch? I'm flattered."

"I'm not sure I meant it as a compliment," Finch deadpanned.

They returned their attention to the monitor, and it seemed that the two man in the office were debating about what to have for lunch.

"A French bistro. C'mon, Peter, let me take you to one for a change."

"Erhm." The older man's voice sound a bit strained. "I'm not sure your idea of fine cuisine suits this time of the day. I say we grab something off that deli in the corner."

"No way!" The younger man protested, "I've had enough salamis and sandwiches for the week. I want some proper food. Plus we have nowhere to be until three. More than enough time for some fine cuisine. Come on..."

Finch and Reese exchanged glances. From what they were seeing and hearing, it sounded awfully like the younger man was whining.

"Well, I for one do not see that happening in this office," said Reese, straightening up. "Lunch, Harold?"

"Indian would be fine," said Finch without looking up, but a smile evident in his voice.

"Let me know what they settle on," said Reese, smiling inwardly himself. "I'll be back with your tea."

 

*

 

Peter let out a long suffering sigh and picked up the menu. "I'm still not sure if this is a good idea. The bureau does not exactly pay me to have fine dining for lunch."

"Relax, Peter, it's on me." Neal flashed a smile and ordered two glasses of water. "Too bad we can't drink at mid-day. If you like it here, we can always come back and try the house wine. Oh and I think Elizabeth will like the dessert menu here too - very exquisite."

Peter gave him a wry look. "You corrupt me."

Neal looked extremely self satisfied. "Oh I try Peter, I try."

A moment later their entrees arrive, and Peter took a a tentative bite. "Mmm. This is good. I'm glad you didn't coax me into trying one of those experimental restaurants like the one you suggested last week."

Neal grinned, looking gleeful. "I heard Elizabeth liked it."

"Elizabeth likes everything that presents itself as a good idea," said Peter dryly, "I however, actually care about the food." He took a couple of more bites and washed it down with water. Dabbling the corners of his mouth with napkin, Peter asked nonchalantly, "Now. Why is it you insisted I have lunch with you this time?"

Neal smiled at him, quiet for a few moments. "I guess I won't insult your intelligence by saying, 'I just want to'."

Peter sighed again. "It'd be nice to hear, but no, I suppose you'd better not."

Neal looked around. Since it was lunch, the bistro was only half full, its clientele high class, mostly couples. He pointed his chin towards the backseat, where a dark haired man sat with his back to them, laughing with his girlfriend.

"Now I could be imagining things," Neal said in a low voice, "But I've seen this couple three times already this week. The first time I saw them, they had a map of New York in their hands, looking every bit a tourist. See? On the table. Yet they seem to stick around a lot for a tourist couple, and in all the non-touristy spots."

"You think they are tailing you?" Peter discreetly checked the couple out, and furrowed his brows. "I dunno, Neal. It could just be a coincidence."

"Could be." Neal admitted, "Or it could be they made their way to this restaurant after seeing us enter. I saw them hanging outside the building half an hour ago, near that deli that you are so fond of. It would appear this is their second meal."

Peter pursed his lips into a thin line. "Alright. I'll see what I can find out about them." He proceeded to get up from the table.

"What are you doing?" Neal widened his eyes, alarmed.

"Some light interrogating," Peter patted his hand. "Don't worry, just to find out about their intentions. I won't spook them - it is not my cover that they should be worried about blowing."

 

*

 

"Mr. Reese." Finch's voice had a certain sense of urgency when Reese returned to the library, takeout in one hand, tea in another. "They have left for the bistro."

"Hmm, it seems whining does help. Would it help if I whined to you sometime, Harold?"

Finch ignored him. Reese grinned.

"Do we have eyes and ears on them?"

"We do. It seems Mr. Caffery is concerned about a couple that has been tailing him for the past few days, and Agent Burke has gone over to question them."

"Question them?" Reese sounded genuinely surprised, "How brazen is the FBI nowadays?"

"To Agent Burke's credit, he is disguising himself as an average tourist, asking after a map."

"Still not a lot of finesse, I have to say."

Finch peered at him. "Not all those in the law enforcement sector believe in guilty until proven innocent, Mr. Reese."

"Mmm. It only takes one mistake to be fatal, you know, Finch."

Finch nodded grimly. "What are you going to do then, Mr. Reese?"

"For now?" Reese peeled back the lids of the takeout container and let the aroma fill the room, "Nothing. Our FBI friend seems competent enough to find out if I were to tail them, and I have no wish to be mistaken for his friend's stalker."

"Interesting." Finch studied him a bit more, then reached out. "Save me some chicken madras, please."

Reese was just about to hand over the food when the phone rang. The ring was old fashioned, not a mobile ringtone, but from a landline. For a moment they stared at each other, both startled.

"You have a landline here?"

The startled look on Finch's face transformed into a grim one, as he limped behind one of the bookcases, pulled out a few books, and picked up a receiver from the back. Reese watched soundlessly as Finch listened, and put down the phone again.

"We have a new Number."

Knowing full well now how the Machine gave out the Irrelevant list, Reese continued to watch as Finch went around the library to collect various books, and putting them together to get a Social Security Number. Finch pulled out the last book, stared at the combination, and frowned.

"We have a problem, Mr. Reese," he said, looking up with wide, alarmed eyes. "The new Number belongs to our friend at the FBI. He just made himself a target by talking to these people."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how many people are interested in seeing a crossover between these two shows, so please show support and let me know if you like the idea! Currently the plot bunnies are telling me to work a heist in with some action, so both teams can play to their strengths. Hopefully it'll work out. 
> 
> PS. The reason Finch was able to recognise the SSN straight away was because he used it to look up information on Peter, when he was trying to research Neal's associates. Thanks to April for pointing it out as it may not be clear, but I couldn't work anything into the fic, so I thought I'd post an explaination here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finch invites Reese over for dinner, Peter babysits Neal, and the Irish mob tinkles glasses. No, seriously. You'll have to read to find out. XD

"You are right," said Peter quietly, sitting down again. "I don't like this at all."

"You find out anything?"

"No, not really." Peter fixed his gaze on a mirror opposite them, staring at the couple in their reflection. "It's a gut feeling. And like you, I don't think it's a good feeling." He pondered for a moment. "Anyone in your past that made a surface recently?"

Neal frowned. "Not that I can think of. But then again, I have made a lot of enemies without my knowledge in the past."

 

*

 

Back in the library, Finch tried frantically to pull up all the said 'enemies' in Neal's past. 

"There sure are a few," said Finch, more alarmed now. "And they seem to have no problem in getting their hands dirty or wet, unlike our friend."

"How Mr. Caffery survived to this day, I'll never know," Reese muttered under his breath.

"I guess he owes it to Agent Burke," Finch said, still tapping away. "It's just that much difficult to hurt a man when he is close to an FBI agent almost everyday."

"Hang on..." Reese pulled off a piece of paper from the glass wall and studied it carefully, "It says here that our friend Caffery has an ankle monitor. Can you hack into the database?"

"I'm offended as to you need to ask," was the reply.

Analysing the data was quicker than they thought it would be. Ten minutes later, a picture began to emerge from the convoluted routes that appeared on the map.

"So, a two mile radius." Reese mused, "Can't say I envy him much."

Finch snorted. "Still want to complain about the employment benefits I give you, Mr. Reese?"

Reese grinned. "I don't think the FBI bought him a loft, either."

The tips of Finch's ear grow red, though the man's voice remained steady. "Our friend does live in a nice penthouse, however. Way beyond his pay."

"Possible source of trouble?"

"No, judging by the data Agent Burke knows about his living arrangements, and does not seem to have a problem with that."

"And we all know if the FBI has no problem with something, you must be a good law abiding citizen," Reese chimed. 

"He frequents three places: the FBI building, his own penthouse, and - " Finch pulled up the third address and sounded mildly surprised, "Agent Burke's house. Hmm. Their relationship is probably closer than we thought."

"See Harold?" Reese took a sip from his coffee, "Every good employer should invite his employee around for dinner sometime. You should really follow his example."

Finch glanced at him sideways, thought not in good humour. "I suspect Mrs. Burke cooks for them. Who will cook for us?"

"Takeout is just that much tastier if I can have them in your house, Harold."

"If we are to have dinner in my house, it will not be takeout," said Finch, somewhat inconsequentially. "Tonight, however, I suggest a stakeout."

Reese raised an eyebrow. "Any idea which house Caffery would be in for the night?"

Finch looked mildly surprised. "Why should he be in Burke's house?"

"Oh I don't know, Finch," said Reese lightly, smirking. "Their relationship could be more than what we think."

 

*

 

"Come on Peter. I'm not in any imminent danger and I definitely don't need babysitting."

"Who says you need babysitting? Elizabeth is out of town again, I'm just saying I need some company. Someone to watch the games with."

Neal looked at Peter exasperatedly. "You've never, and I stress never, invited me for a boy's night in, and pardon me if I find it odd about now."

"There's a first for everything," Peter said, looking just as uncomfortable. After making sure that no one was looking, he shifted closer. "Look. I didn't want to worry you earlier, but when I went over to the couple, I saw one of them quickly shaking their sleeve down to hide something on their arm. It was a picture of a clover, with fangs. Now I did a bit of digging when I got back to the office -"

"The Irish mob?" Neal sounded startled, "They are the ones after me?"

"You know what the clover and the fang means?" Peter frowned, "you never told me."

"Well, yeah, I may or may not have, allegedly, stole a historical artefact with Irish origin a couple of years back. I may also have had a  hypothetical run in with their leader."

Peter glanced up to the ceiling and let out another puff of sigh. "Oh Neal. You and your youthful years."

Neal made a half-hearted attempt at an apologetic smile. "At least I'm warming up to the idea of a boy's night in now."

"Good." Peter eyed him. "You get the beer."

"No, Peter," Neal said in a slow, patient, but slightly patronising voice, "I will get the wine, and some noir films."

"What? Hey, I'm the one who invited you over..."

 

*

 

Finch removed his gaze from the monitor, looking up at Reese. "Any idea what this Irish mob is?"

"A few," Reese said grimly. "Depending on what artefact he took, our friend may be in some serious trouble indeed."

"I wonder if he's going to spend the night in Burke's house..." Finch mumbled quietly, as if pondering an previously unheard of idea. 

"Sometimes," Reese said in a deliberately patronising voice, "Friends spend the night in friend's house."

"My my, Mr. Reese." Finch seemed to snap out of his reverie and eyed his employee with renewed interest. "First dinner, now asking to sleep over. Aren't we moving a bit fast?"

Reese chuckled. "Watch out Harold, or I could move in this time next week."

He noticed that the tips of Finch's ear burned red again, yet no other emotion was betrayed on the man's face. 

"Stakeout it is then," said Finch suddenly, getting up. "An ex-CIA agent, staking out in front of a current FBI agent's house. Oh this should be interesting, Mr. Reese."

Reese only tilted his head and grinned. "I won't let you down, Finch." He watched the other man gather his coat, keys, and various other items, and mused, "Don't forget the empty water bottle, Finch."

Finch turned around to look at him, suddenly sheepish. 

"Actually, I wasn't planning to stakeout in the car."

"Really?" Reese raised an eyebrow. "Where else would you suggest?"

The other man peered at him, a tiny smile upon his lips. 

"How would you like to come over for dinner, Mr. Reese?"

 

*

 

"My house, my rules." Peter stopped Neal at the door, a touch of warning in his voice. "First of all, no -"

"Relax, Peter, it's not like I haven't been here," said Neal easily, sliding into the door under Peter's arm. "I'll make myself comfortable."

Peter rolled his eyes and followed. "I don't know why I put up with you, really. You are nothing but trouble."

Neal flashed a bright smile and set down the wine at the table. Turning to find glasses in the cabinet, he said softly, "Trouble lover."

Behind him, Peter blushed imperceptibly, and pretended he did not hear him.  

 

*

 

In the bright and spacious house right opposite, Finch and Reese stared at each other.

"I heard that." Finch said finally, setting down his fork finally. "It seems you are right, there is more to their relationship than we thought."

Reese had his hand in mid air too, about to take a spoonful of soup. He pondered for a moment. "I don't know, Finch, could just be their dynamic and style of banter."

"Right. Because a little flirting never goes a miss in an office setting."

Reese smirked. "I don't know, Finch. Are you a trouble lover?"

Finch poked at his steak, not looking up. "We are equal parts trouble, Mr. Reese."

Reese smiled against his drink. "Oh, I think I can be a trouble lover, Mr. Finch."

Finch gave a tiny, almost invisible twitch in his chair. "This is making me uncomfortable, Mr. Reese."

"And here I thought I was making significant progress in being invited over for dinner." Reese did not pursue the subject further, but instead glanced around the house. "Do you have a house on every street of New York, Finch? It is very convenient. Way better than the car."

"Contrary to your belief, Mr. Reese, I don't own the whole of New York," said Finch dryly, then adding as an afterthought, "At least not yet."

Reese laughed. They both had an earpiece on, listening to every movement and conversation that went on in the Burke house. As their targets were also dining, the atmosphere seemed relaxed, amiable, almost like a family gathering. 

Not that either Finch or Reese remembered these much.

In the earpiece, it seemed Neal had moved on from talking about fine arts to fine literature, and Reese had a funny feeling it was to get under the FBI agent's skin. From the surveillance, it looked as if the agent was pained, and struggled to keep feigning interest. Reese stole a glance at the man sitting opposite him; Finch, of course, was highly interested in what Neal had to say, and was nodding and 'mmm'ing and smiling at his every word. Reese resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"I am taking a liking to this Mr. Caffery," declared Finch, after their main course. "His knowledge on eighteenth century art and literature are unique and profound."

Reese tried to look interested, but decided that he was not as polite as the FBI agent. "I'm sure you two will get on famously, after we save him from the Irish mob," he said sarcastically. "I can't imagine what he'd quote as his thanks."

Finch smiled. "There's quite no need to feel - inadequate, shall we say, Mr. Reese."

Reese blinked. "Inadequate in what?"

Finch kept his smile but did not answer. "Knowledge of literature and art will not save me in any situation. You, however, could."

For a brief moment Reese was bewildered. Was Finch trying to placate him? Offering him a compliment? Or god forbid, be nice? 

The sound of broken glass made him immediately alert again. Peering at the surveillance footage, he saw both man standing up to check the source of the noise, which came from the back door.

"Mr. Reese," Finch had made his way to the windows somehow during this time and sounded alarmed, "I think I just saw two people going into their backyard."

"Stay here."

Reese heard a safety being pulled back in his earpiece, and did the same. He pushed the window up and slid effortlessly onto the grass outside, padding across.

 

*

 

"Stay here," Peter hissed. 

Pulling out his gun, he flipped the lights shut, moved to his backdoor, listening for noises, holding his breath. Neal pressed himself against the wall, and glanced around in alarm.

"Two men just went to the back," he said quietly, "Wait - there's a third coming to the front."

Peter hesitated for only a moment before retreating to the centre of the living room. "It's too dangerous to confront them on either side," he said in a low voice, "We'll have to wait until they make a move."

In the darkness, he felt Neal firmly nod once. 

"It's too bad you don't like firearms," said Peter, in an attempt to lightening the mood a little. "I used to think that was a positive thing about you. Not so sure anymore."

Neal chuckled silently.

 

*

 

Outside, Reese picked at the front door lock.

"Listen to that, Finch. He doesn't like firearms either. Maybe you two are lost brothers."

He could almost hear the other man's lips being pressed into a thin and disapproving line. "The task at hand, Mr. Reese."

Reese chuckled silently, and the lock slid open with a quiet click.

 

*

 

Peter snapped up his head at the sound of lock being picked open. Keeping his voice as low as possible, he asked:

"How long does it take for you to pick my lock, Neal?"

Neal didn't bother defending with 'allegedly' or the 'hypothetical's, and answered, "Ten to fifteen seconds, maybe."

"Hmm. I need an upgrade." Peter let out a quiet breath, starting to move towards the direction of the front door. "This guy picked it in twelve seconds. I say we are looking at a pro."

He saw a dark figure crouching near the door, and raised his gun cautiously. "Don't move, F-"

Before he could finish, however, the figure lounged forward and there was a muffled gasp, and Peter whirled around to find Neal being held hostage. Blood suddenly running cold in his veins, he began to advance quickly - 

"I'm not with the Irish mob and I mean no harm," said the man in a low, husky voice. "I will explain later, but both of you are in danger right now."

"You don't say?" Peter said sarcastically, "Let go of my partner. Or I put a bullet in your knee."

"My my, Mr. Reese, it seems you have found your lost brother too." 

"Shut up, Finch," Reese hissed. "Do you have eyes on the men in the backyard?"

"Who are you talking to?" Opposite him, Peter strengthened his grip on the gun. "Do you have an accomplice somewhere? What do the men out there want?"

"Answers later, get to safety now." Reese pushed Neal towards Peter and tucked away his gun. "Agent Burke, I trust you know a fellow man of the trade when you see one."

"You are an agent too?" Peter sounded stunned, all the while making sure that Neal was okay. Then Neal's head perked up.

"You," he said breathlessly, "You were the one who spilled coffee on me and tried to take my phone."

"I'm a man of many talents," Reese shrugged.

Another sound of glass being shattered, and all of them fell silent at once. 

"For an Irish mob, their way of drawing out their target is quite rudimentary," Reese said, mostly for Finch's benefit.

There was some rapid tapping on the other end of the line, and then Finch's voice came, relieved. "They are gone, Mr. Reese."

Reese decided to relay that information later, and instead moved cautiously to the back door. He made a specific gesture with his hand, and after only a split second of hesitation, Peter pointed his gun away from him and onto the back door too.

"Seems like you've gained Agent Burke's trust," Finch quipped in his ear. "I think they left something. I can't quite see what from the footage, you'll have to find out yourself."

They both pull the door open at the same time. The backyard was, of course, empty as Finch had told Reese, but there was something in the middle of it.

"What is that?" Peter breathed, kneeling down. Reese glanced back at the younger man, who followed them out, and saw immediately that there were horror in the man's eyes. 

"You should really ask your partner."

"Neal?" Peter looked back up, half startled, half alarmed.

All three of them watch as Neal's face whitened, swallowed, and finally said,

"It's a message."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a plot. I swear. But I keep details of the plot vague (I know nothing about Irish mobs or Irish historical artefacts, so please ignore me if you are well educated in that area) and try to keep the conversation going. But there is a plot. (If only to push the characters along). Erm. So don't go too hard on me at the plot holes - all will be explained in good time (satisfactorily, I hope).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finch reveals his favourite colour, Reese asks to sleep in Finch's bed, Peter wants to take Neal camping, and they sleep. Summary is crack. Read on! :P

 

"A message?" Peter repeated with increasing alarm, "What does it say?"

The younger man hesitated for a moment. "No, it's not like that. It's a taunt."

Peter tucked the gun away warily, all the while studying Neal's the face. "How serious is the taunt?"

Neal shrugged. Reese contemplated about supplying with the information that it probably meant their lives were in danger, but thought better of it.

"And you," turning his attention back to the stranger, Peter took one step towards Reese and appeared as FBI-like as he went, "I think you've got some explaining to do."

"Be careful what you say, Mr. Reese. That last thing we want is a federal agent asking questions." It sounded like Finch was clearing up the dishes and turning on the tap, which Reese found oddly endearing. 

"I have nothing to say," said Reese, keeping his tone light.

Peter eyed him warily. "Who are you?"

That, Reese had an standard answer for. "A concerned third party." 

"We should really print that on a business card," said Finch in his ear. Reese grinned.

For a moment, the FBI agent looked bewildered. "Are you - are you wearing an earpiece? Who's on the other end?"

"I don't think they are in any more danger, not any time soon, Mr. Reese," Finch reminded him.

Reese nodded curtly once. "That'll be all for the time being. Do watch out for your backs, gentlemen, I don't think we have seen the end of it yet."

Before either men could say anything, Reese waved and slid away into the darkness.

 

 

 

 

*

 

"Wow, Peter. Does this happen often on your boy's nights in?"

Peter gave Neal a dirty look at his attempt at lighthearted humour. "Is there a guardian angel you neglected to tell me about, Neal?"

"Why would I need another one?" Neal flashed a smile. 

Peter huffed a sigh. "If I were to take an educated guess, I'd say he was trained by the military. Question is, why did he show up tonight? What was his purpose?"

The younger man did not reply, looking every bit as occupied by his own thoughts. Peter regarded him for a moment longer, and placed a hand on his shoulders. 

"I think it's best if we stayed close over the next couple of days." His worried gaze turned to the darkness, and his brows furrowed further. "Things are becoming increasingly strange as of late...."

 

 

 

 

*

 

It took Reese thirty minutes to get back to Finch's safehouse, having gotten into a cab, drove around the block, doubled back and made sure that no one was following him. By the time he got inside, Finch had already cleared away the table. 

"Aww, I missed dessert."

The billionaire gave him a sideway glance. "Actually, I have some ice cream in the fridge."

Reese grinned. "You spoil me."

They sat down on the sofa together, watching the monitor as a normal couple would watch the TV, though the image quality was ten times worse. Inside the Burke house, the FBI agent was telling his CI to take a shower. The younger man quickly declined, telling the agent to go first. The agent shrugged, grabbed a towel and went into the bathroom.

Five seconds later, Reese's phone rang. Neal Caffery was making a phone call. 

Reese exchanged a meaningful glance with Finch, and listened in. 

"Mozzie." The younger man's voice was breathless and a little hurried, betraying far more worry than he showed just minutes ago. "They found where Peter lives. They left a message for me, and it's not good."

"I think our friend do know what the message mean, then," said Reese quietly.

The voice on the other end of the line didn't hesitate for one moment. "What is it they want? You haven't got that lionhead anymore."

"No, it's not a message to claim something back. It's a message for a debt owed."

Finch and Reese exchanged glances again. Needless to say, it was not a good sign if you owed the Irish mob anything. 

"Oh. Payment in expertise." The man whom Neal referred to as Mozzie on the other end of the line didn't seem to have trouble comprehending, though he did sound worried. "Any idea what they want you for?"

"Some," Neal glanced around, making sure that the shower was still on, and whispered urgently. "There's a travelling display from Ireland in the New York Museum of Art. I've been getting the goosebumps since they got here. I think they want me to steal something for them, while the collection is on foreign land, so the crimes can't be traced back to them easily."

There was a audible intake of breath on the other end. "I can't imagine what the Suit will say to that, Neal."

"That's why we can't get him involved at the moment." Neal sounded agitated again. "Knowing these guys, they will try to contact me again with times and details. Let's hope that we can get what they want, the way we usually do, and be done with it."

"We have a problem, Mr. Reese..." Finch said slowly, ominously. And Reese knew what he meant. "The Machine would not have picked out their Numbers if the mobsters were just planning to use them. They are going to kill them."

 

 

 

 

*

 

Peter stepped out of the shower, peeked at the living room, and saw the younger man working away at the computer. 

"Are you sure you want to take the sofa?"

Neal sounded distracted. "Uh, yeah, yeah I'm sure. Don't worry, go ahead and sleep. I'll be up for a bit longer."

"Don't think you are going to research anything, or plan anything without me, Neal," said Peter with a touch of warning in his voice. His face stern, he came over and pulled the younger man off the sofa. "Go take a shower. I'll be here when you get back."

The younger man opened his mouth to argue, saw the look on the agent's face, and recognised defeat. As soon as Neal left the room, Peter began tapping fervently on the computer himself.

"What...an interesting... dynamic... indeed," said Finch, watching everything that the two men entered and searched for on the computer. It was clear that Peter was trying to find out whatever Neal was trying to hide from him. "It's almost like they are playing a game of cat and mouse."

"I know that feeling sometimes," said Reese, watching the monitor intently. "I think Agent Burke knows more about his friend than he lets on."

"Hmmm." Finch gave him a meaningful glance. 

"I still haven't figured out your favourite colour yet," said Reese, unprompted, smirking. 

Finch regarded him warily for a moment.  "It's a combination of white and black," he said finally. 

Reese blinked, tore his gaze away from the monitor, and seemed for a moment bewildered, then mildly surprised. Finch's ear tips burned red again.

Reese looked down at his attire - white shirt in a black suit, as per usual - thoughtfully for a brief moment, and looked up again. In this short timeframe, Finch somehow managed to limp to the fridge, and with his back to him, called out: 

"Ice cream?"

Slowly, Reese returned his gaze to the monitor, his face betraying nothing. "Alright. What flavours have you got?"

"Finest vanilla from Madagascar," said Finch, handing him a tub.

"Isn't this cozy." 

Finch seemed to have recollected himself, found his usual calm, and sat down next to him again. "Did either of them find out anything?"

"No, our friend Caffery is clever enough to google more noir film titles than to look up the museum's website."

"All the more suspicious, I should think," said Finch softly. "Agent Burke is not a man easily fooled."

In the surveillance footage, Peter Burke raised his head and stared towards the direction of the bathroom, a worried frown evident on his face.

"I'll tail Caffery tomorrow." Reese said, "Although, on the off chance that he recognises and catches me, I might need you for a bit of fieldwork." 

"I'm always up for a challenge, Mr. Reese."

Reese offered him a soft smile. "Go to bed, Finch. I'll keep watch for the night."

Finch glanced around uncomfortably. "I'm sorry there's only one bed, I should really order another, on the off chance that something like this happens."

Reese wanted to point out that he had an obscenely large bed, but decided to refrain. "Go sleep. I'll be here." 

Finch watched him for a few moment longer, then stood up. "Let me know if anything happens."

"The most likely thing to happen, this time of the night, is also quite unlikely to happen," Reese replied, somewhat absent-mindedly. "Though I could be wrong."

Finch stopped in his tracks. "What are you talking about, Mr. Reese?"

Reese grinned devilishly at the monitor. "The agent could ask his friend to bed. Then the show'd get interesting."

Finch half rolled his eyes and turned away. "I really wish you wouldn't watch that, if that did happen."

"A sense of propriety, Finch?"

"A sense of dignity, Mr. Reese."

Reese heard Finch open drawers, closets, shaking out towels and pyjamas, the sound of him getting ready to retire for the evening was so domestic, so mundane, that the next sentence slipped out of him before he knew what he was doing. 

"Would you ever invite me to bed, Finch?" The words were mischievous, just a touch lighthearted, perhaps out of habit.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw the other man freeze. 

“If you you want the bed that much, Mr. Reese,” when the reply finally came it was calculated, "I'm sure I can spend the night on the sofa."

Something inside Reese's chest hollowed, though his face betrayed nothing of it. "Such a spoilsport, Finch."

There was a quiet sigh behind his back, and a stack of towels and clean clothes appeared on his shoulder. "I'm prone to toss and turns, Mr. Reese, and I am a light sleeper. But..." Reese turned around to see Finch staring at him with an odd intensity, "If you can get no rest on the sofa, it _is_ a really large bed."

A long moment stretched out as they stared at each other, each unsure of the other's reaction, then Reese smiled a slow smile. "Thanks, Finch."

 

 

 

 

*

 

"I want you to take the bed," said Peter suddenly, when Neal reentered the room. "I'll keep watch for the night, just in case these men come back."

For a moment Neal looked flustered. "N-No, Peter, that's OK. I'm used to staying up until the wee hours of the morning, so I can keep watch."

"Don't argue with me." Peter sounded a bit annoyed, but not at the other man. "You'll need some rest to be on your best performance."

"Why would I need to be on my best performance?" Neal's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. 

"Because there is a group of mobsters looking for you, taunting you," Peter said in a slow, slightly condescending voice, "Now if you ask me, I think there is a good chance that you might need to do some running or conning over the next few days to get out of your... predicament."

"You are not adverse to the idea of me conning out of my predicament?" Neal arched a brow a little playfully. "My my Peter. You have been corrupted."

"I tend to turn a blind eye when you use your skills for the greater good," said Peter sarcastically. "Now off to bed."

Neal didn't budge. He kept his brow raised, stared at the agent defiantly, and crossed his legs on the sofa. 

"Oh, fine." Peter let out a long suffering sigh. "It's probably best if we both slept in the living room tonight."

Neal contemplated this for a moment, then conceded. "I guess I'll take the floor."

"No..." Peter rubbed his neck, then stood up. "We'll both take the floor. It'll give us an advantage if they return during the night. Help me move the coffee table, Neal."

"Ooh." The younger man's eyes lit up. "Camping in the living room."

They pushed the coffee table aside, rolled out blankets, puffed the pillows and settled down onto the floor. The agent checked his gun, put it aside his pillow, and caught the younger man quickly hiding something under his as well: 

"What was that?"

"Oh, just some tools I keep by to ensure my own safety," said Neal breezily.

Peter eyed him suspiciously for a few moments, then decided to let go. He got up to turn off the light, grabbed a torch and padded back to lie down next to Neal. With the curtains tightly drawn, the room fell into a thick darkness, the night silent except for Neal's even breathing.

"Have you ever been camping, Neal?" Peter asked softly, after a few moments.

"Not on purpose, no," said Neal. "My area of expertise don't really extend to dealing with animals, wildlife, or flora and fauna."

Peter chuckled. "I should really take you some time. Setting up a tent in the woods, going for a bit of fishing...let's see how you can con the fishes into dinner..."

"Aw Peter." Neal let out a soft laugh, "I'm sure I can trust you to do the hard work while we are there."

"Oh yeah?" The older man shuffled on his pillow and turned to look at his companion, "I could teach you."

"We could do that," Neal agreed amiably. "Or I could con you into doing all the hard work."

Peter huffed a laugh and Neal could almost feel it on his cheek. He smiled to himself.

"Do you think this will ever be over?" Neal asked softly, after a few moments.

"Our partnership?" Peter sounded surprised. 

"No! No." Neal said quickly, clearing his throat. "I mean the trouble. From my past."

Peter shook his head, and patted the other man in the dark. "Even if it doesn't, a little trouble can be exciting every now and again." He contemplated for a moment. "I am surprised, though... If you have had any more 'alleged' run-ins with the Mafia, rogue agents from the KGB, or anything of the sort, now's the time to let me know." Peter's voice was ambiguous, a touch serious but not without humour. "Always better safe than sorry."

Neal laughed silently. Next to him, Peter stifled a yawn. 

"You are not a blanket hogger, are you?" said the agent, pulling a little closer. "It can get cold in the early morning, and I really prefer if I didn't catch a cold from you. You _have_ been sneezing a lot lately."

"Nah. I was beginning to think may be I'm just allergic to Jone's new cologne."

"Jones wear cologne?"

"Oh, Peter."

The agent chuckled. "Good night, Neal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The New York Museum of Art is fictional, of course, among other things. Also I don't remember if Burke house had a guest room, but let's pretend that they don't (or don't want to use it). A bit of domesticity before things get interesting (I hope).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finch cooks Reese breakfast, Peter couldn't focus on work, and Neal receives junk mail. I may have to come back to this chapter to edit plot details but this is where it's headed.

 Finch woke with a start.  For a few moments he simply laid in his bed, frozen, listening for abnormal sounds and movement, but there were none. Then he realised there was a dip on the other side of the bed, and someone was sleeping with him.

It took Finch three seconds to remember that he had offered Reese to come over to stakeout on the house opposite the street, and another three for him to realise that Reese actually did take up on his offer and climbed into his bed.

Slowly and very deliberately, Finch turned around in his bed, expecting to see the other man still asleep, while quickly formulating a plan to get off the bed without waking him. Instead, he found a pair of blue-grey eyes staring back at him.

"Mr. Reese!"

He nearly jumped up, and various parts of his body ached in protest. In a feeble attempt to recollect himself, Finch licked his lips. 

"I thought you were asleep."

Reese stared at him for another moment, then, like a languid cat, stretched. "Good morning, Finch," he smiled lazily.

Finch looked vaguely annoyed. "Don't you have some tailing to do?"

"It's customary to offer your house guest breakfast upon waking first, Finch," Reese replied sarcastically. 

Finch pointedly ignored him. "Anything happen to our friends last night?"

"Nothing happened to them or among them," said Reese. 

"Eggs benedict alright, Mr. Reese?"

Reese looked up from doing his buttons, a touch warily. "Beg pardon?"

Finch half-turned on his way to the kitchen. "Eggs benedict. For breakfast." Seeing the other man's expression, he added a touch mockingly, "For my reputation as a gentleman."

"How thoughtful of you, Harold." Reese tilted his head sideways, just a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Eggs benedict sounds just fine."

Finch walked over to the table, picked up the earpiece and fitted it into his ear again. He listened intently for a few minutes. "It seems our friends are having breakfast also." Another few seconds and Finch frowned. "Who's Satchmo?"

"Their dog," Reese replied, "I saw a family picture last night. Wife took the dog on a family visit, I gather."

"Ah." Finch moved around in the kitchen, finding plates, pots, pans, and turned the kettle on. "Are you going to check up on our new friend over at Detective Carter's?"

"I trust Carter can take care of Bear for a couple of days," Reese said, with a touch of amusement in his voice. "I think she may even have squealed when I asked her to look after Bear while we are out."

"Mmm." Finch made a noncommittal noise, getting ready to poach the eggs. "I can't decide whether I should miss our new friend, or be relieved that my rare books collection have survived another day."

Reese flashed him a grin as he serviced his guns lazily. "Smells good, Finch."

Finch flipped the contents of the grill onto the plate and pushed it towards him, expression deadpan. "Don't get used to it, Mr. Reese."

 

 

*

 

"This arrived for me in Peter's house this morning, Mozzie, in Peter's house!"

It was noon when Neal finally had a chance to meet with his friend from his shadier past, Mozzie, a short man with funny glasses, currently in a city worker's outfit. As soon as they met, Neal stuffed an envelope into Mozzie's hands, almost fuming. 

"I told Peter the message the other night was a taunt. It wasn't. THIS is a taunt."

Mozzie gave him an apprehensive look, before opening the letter and reading it. "Dear Mr. Caffery: You are expected on your payment of auction number 30069719x. The deadline for payment is Thursday next week, number and address to follow. Overdue payments will be transferred onto your chosen guarantor, Mr. Peter Burke, business associate. Attached... an early painting by Francis Bacon." He looked up. "Apart from the bit about the multi-million dollar painting, this reads like scam junk mail."

"Except junk mail isn't delivered to someone else's door in your name," said Neal. "If they think they can hold Peter hostage to be used against me, of all people - "

"Well, they could, seeing how the Suit will likely oppose to our plans," said Mozzie sharply. "Speaking of which, what exactly are our plans?"

Neal pondered for a few minutes, turning the letter over and over. "I thought they'd at least want to meet before hand. But this? It seems they just want me to steal the painting, and wait around for their instructions." 

"Being kept in the dark is never a good start to any partnership," said Mozzie, ominous.

Neal sighed. "Peter wants to keep me close for the next few days, so it's going to be extra difficult for us to conceive a plan. I will double back and make sure I have the afternoon off, and get myself on some fieldwork assignments after that, but... in the mean time, can you hack the Museum's database and check their staff rotations, security cameras, the usual? I'd like to know what we are dealing with."

 

 

*

 

Reese had a smirk on his face as he took a sip of his coffee and shook out his paper. "Do I sense a challenge, Finch?"

"From whom, our new friend?" Finch was tapping away in his ear, a constant, familiar, and by now welcome noise. "I'm not feeling particularly challenged, Mr. Reese. Even you can hack into the museum's database, I should think."

Reese's lips twitched. "I'm going to take that as an insult just to be safe, Finch."

He could practically hear the other man smile. "Pair his phone, Mr. Reese. I am intrigued to see what our new friend can get up to."

 

 

*

 

"Where are we going to do research, if we can't meet in the penthouse?" Neal asked. "The park or the cafe?"

"Oh goodness no," The shorter man replied. "The park is a good place to have secret conversation. It's not a good place to do secretive research."

"Oh? I thought you could encrypt your wifi connection pretty easily."

"I can. But there are countless cameras in the public." Mozzie waved his fingers around in a circle, pointedly ignoring the exasperated 'here-we-go-again' look on Neal's face. "The government probably has a secret system, a machine that watches you every hour of every day. You may think it's a conspiracy theory!" He said defiantly, squaring his chest. "But the day will come when I am right."

 

 

*

 

"I have to give this Mozzie character some credit, Finch." Reese took a few shots of the scenery before surreptitiously turning the camera onto the two men. "For a conspiracy theorist, he is incredibly accurate."

He heard Finch tap twice on the keyboard, and snort softly. "A simple google search will tell you that over a million people are talking about the concept of the Machine, Mr. Reese. No more than ten people know it actually exists." 

"Do you think he could hack into the museum security feeds, Finch?" 

"I don't know. Why don't you come back to the library and have a try, and then we may have our answer."

Reese almost laughed. "The Agency did give me extensive IT training, you know."

"And I have no doubt that in order to be considered an asset to someone as impressive as Mr. Caffery, his skills cannot be below par an ex-CIA agent."

"So it's OK for you to pull a comparison between me and him, but not between him and yourself?"

Finch's was beginning to sound vaguely annoyed. "It's hardly objective if I consider myself a variable, Mr. Reese."

"True." Reese raised his camera again, his expression softening for the fraction of a second. "You are one of a kind, Finch."

Back in the library, Finch paused from his constant tapping. The man looked bewildered for a brief moment, and despite himself, lifted the corners of his lips into a tiny smile.

 

 

*

 

Peter sat at his desk, eyes unfocused over the pile of documents in front of him, scratching his chin absently. Neal was out on a lunch break, _probably meeting Mozzie_ as he declined on Peter's offer to have lunch together, but Peter let the man go anyway, because Peter did not want to _coddle_ him. He checked Neal's anklet data (a park outside the FBI building, no doubt hiding in plain sight) just to be safe, then closed the laptop with a sigh. 

He wanted to do work, (and he did have a lot of work on his hands), but all his brain really wanted to do was to process information of last night, and this morning. Last night was strange, but this morning stranger. He made Neal breakfast, and Neal offered to pick up the mail, but out of the corner of his eye he was sure he saw Neal stuff an envelope hastily into Neal's own pockets, before handing the rest to him. Why was Neal stealing his mail?

Peter tried to analyse the matter further, but his brain kept jumping back to specific moments of the morning, like how he woke up to the younger man's bright smiles, how they sat down and bantered over breakfast like a couple, how Neal made a joke about his morning hair, and how he was tempted to wipe a bit of food off the younger man's lips with his thumb. 

And last night... well, last night he bid Neal good night, and he just laid here, listening to other man breathe, long and slow and even, until he was sure that Neal had been asleep. Then Neal rolled over, and nudged a foot over Peter's, making body contact that was not quite intimate, but not quite casual either. His heart had skipped a beat... 

A knock on the door interrupted Peter's reverie. He snapped back into the present, quickly rearranging the papers on his desk (though he didn't know why), and cleared his throat. 

"Yes?"

Jones' head poked in. "I found something on that Man in a Suit you were describing this morning, boss."

Peter arched a brow. "Really? I didn't think such a vague description would return any results."

"Actually, you will be surprised by how many people were asking questions by that same vague description," Jones handed him some files, which Peter opened and saw nothing but 'redacted'. "I hear the go-to person to talk to on this is one Detective Joss Carter, in the NYPD."

"NYPD..." Peter mulled over the files, contemplative. Redacted files strongly suggested a military background, as he had guessed, maybe even service in the Intelligence Agency. Add NYPD to that mix, he could be looking at a very difficult fight over jurisdiction, which was the last thing he needed. 

"This mystery guy." Peter said finally, "Is he generally wanted for information, or as a suspect?"

Jones shrugged his shoulder. "There are lot of different versions for his story. Maybe you er, want to talk to Detective Carter about this. I didn't have much luck, as she said, quote unquote, 'Guy in a Suit won't be interested in White Collar crimes'." He pressed his lips into a disapproving line, which made Peter laugh. 

"Alright, I'll try to show her how important white collar crimes can be sometimes. Thanks Jones."

Watching his agent leave the room, Peter drummed his fingers on the desk, hesitated for a moment, then picked up his phone. 

 

 

*

 

"I think he made me," Reese told Finch in a hurried voice. "Caffery's associates are living up to Caffery's name. I've only been following him for fifteen minutes, at best."

"Don't worry, Mr. Reese," Finch replied, sounding like he was focusing on something intently, "Mr. Mozzie - "

"I really don't think a name like Mozzie ought to have a Mr. in front of it," said Reese, quickly crossing a street and never taking the eyes off the shorter man.

"Point taken. Mozzie doesn't know we were able to pair this phone, and I can see him texting. To warn Mr. Caffery, no doubt. Let's hope he reveals a location."

Reese's phone beeped three seconds later.

" _May have tail. Going in Friday's._ " Reese read out loud, though he knew Finch would no doubt see it on his monitor too. "Why, Finch? Who realises they are being followed and goes into a restaurant to grab some steak?"

"Our friend could be hungry. Or it could be a code."

The phone beeped again, and this time Reese saw an incoming text for a 'Mr. Haversham'. 

" _Friday is far. No other days available?_ " Reese made a brief frown. "It's Thursday today. I'm guessing they aren't referring to actual dates." He looked up to see the shorter man cross the street again, swerve a U-turn, and trotting down the direction where he came from. "Hmmm. I admit, I'll be surprised if our conspiracy theorist doesn't have a few safe houses of his own."

The line was silent for a few minutes.

"Mr. Haversham..." Finch said finally in Reese's ear, his voice uncertain, and Reese could almost see the man furrowing his brows in intense concentration. "Haversham..." There were some rapid tapping on the keyboard, some paper being ruffled, and then, just as a new outgoing text with an address titled 'Tuesday' came to Reese's phone, Finch let out a noise of surprise.

"I thought the name sounded familiar, Mr. Reese." Finch sounded extremely bemused, "Mr. Haversham is one of my tenants."


	5. Chapter 5

 

"I like Tuesday," said Mozzie, pushing the door open. "The security in this building is so sophisticated, it's almost absurd. Clearly the landlord is almost as paranoid as I am."

"Wow. Coming from you, that is high praise indeed, Mozz." Neal studied the spacious room, taking in the decor, looking bemused. It had a huge workspace in the middle, with several glass bubbles around it, caved in the middle, no doubt as seats. "Very futuristic."

"As I said, the building's security system is something of its own." Mozzie flipped on the lights and gestured for Neal to sit down in one of the bubbles, "When I refitted the room for our purposes, I found that there were hidden parameters coded into the connections in the building, which I was able to tweak to get us the fastest internet and telecom connection available in a thirty block radius. It's literally like stepping into the future."

"Excellent place to start our research, then."

"Mmm." Mozzie put his laptop down on the workspace. "I always thought I'd use Tuesday as a remote headquarter for some cyber stunt we need to pull in Europe, or something, so I didn't think to stock it with regular comforts. Did you bring takeaway, Neal?"

"Chinese as you requested." Neal grinned and put down a huge bag of food next on the table. "Enough to last three days - though I didn't know you were into leftovers, Mozz."

"I'm not," Mozzie gave him a pointed look, "When you leave in the evening, you are going to put the rest in the trash, making it look like this house is occupied with more people than there actually is."

"Oh. Good thinking." Neal watched as Mozzie opened up the laptop, began typing, and leaned forward. "Can you find out anything about my mystery guest last night? Tall man in a suit. I overheard Jones talking on the phone, it sounded like this phrase actually means something."

Mozzie nodded absently. "I'll ask around for you. But I have to say, as far as superhero pseudonyms go, Suitman isn't very impressive."

"Says the Dentist of Detroit."

"Hey! I told you I was fourteen when I came up with that name. Not quit mentioning it."

 

 

*

 

Back in the library, Reese watched with unmasked concern as Finch stared at the monitor intently, tapping on the keyboard with a renewed fervour, expression bordering on glee.

"Fell into our lap! Mr. Reese, will you look at that!" Finch sounded excited, like the proverbial kid on Christmas morning. "Mr. Paranoid Havisham may have refitted the room and reinstalled everything, but since it is _my_ building, and my network..." A few more triumphant taps later, and a live, coloured video feed complete with a remote accessed computer screen pull up on the monitor. "Aha."

Reese edged closer. "I'm not sure whether I should be impressed, or worried, Finch."

"I know what you are thinking, Mr. Reese," said Finch, plainly. "Would you believe me if I said there are no cameras or bugs in your loft?"

"If you want to check up on me, all you have to do is call and ask," said Reese, his tone light, though his face remained unreadable. 

Finch paused, looked up into Reese's eyes, his expression surprisingly earnest. 

"I keep access to the security systems of all my buildings, because all my buildings could potentially be my safe houses. Your loft is yours. I won't use it, intrude upon it, or spy on it without your expressed permission. You can rest easy at night, Mr. Reese."

Reese's face softened. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Finch returned to what he was doing, and suddenly looked sheepish. "I should let you know, though, that as always, I have a contingency plan. But that's all it is," he added quickly, "a contingency. I really hope I won't have to use it, so do look after yourself, Mr. Reese."

Reese flickered his gaze away from the man, smiling slightly. "I'll definitely rest easy at night, then, knowing you have a contingency plan for me."

"I owe you a debt, Mr. Reese." Finch's kept his back to Reese, his expression hidden, his voice soft. "I'd prefer if the need to repay in exact terms never arises, but if anything were to happen to you, I will decode and turn over the world byte by byte to find you."

Then, as if startled by his own words, Finch half-turned to meet Reese's stunned eyes. "It may not sound like much, not like the slash and burn all heroes do in their movies, but it will take well over a person's lifetime to run over all the data in the world, and if that's what it will take, then so be it."

Reese simply stared at him.

"Now you can see why I would prefer that not to happen," said Finch, his voice having a strangely detached quality, unable to remove his gaze from the other man's face. "So please hear me when I say, take care of yourself, Mr. Reese."

The moment of silence stretched out for so long that Finch wondered absently whether both of them had stopped breathing. Finally, after a long, uncertain and agonising minute, Reese's face softened, his eyes fluttered close, and looked as if he was trying to conceal a phantom source of pain. 

"Finch." Reese's voice sounded contrite, all usual trace of mischief and coy gone. "I - "

Finch continued to regard him in vague alarm, looking like he's uncertain how they got to this point and wary of what the next words held for him in store, but the man didn't finish his sentence. Instead, Reese opened his eyes again, stared at Finch long and hard, with a look so fierce and intense, Finch felt his whole body ablaze.

"Thank you," said Reese finally, soft, barely above a whisper.

 

 

*

 

Detective Carter cooed. "Come on doggy, here doggy doggy doggy..."

Across her desk, Fusco snorted. "Yeah. Tried that, didn't work."

"Better than your _Learning Dutch for Dummies_ book," she said, not missing a beat. "Besides, our friends entrusted him to _me_. "

"Oh, so we are competing now, are we?" Fusco shot back. "Cos I'm not doing any more dirty work for them, you tell him that. I nearly got my eyes punched out the other day sitting in that bar."

Carter gave him an amused glance. "It looks good on you, that black eye."

Fusco pulled a sarcastic grimace. "Yeah. Sure." He pointed his chin towards her direction. "Looks like our little buddy still ain't happy."

Beside the desk, Bear crawled into a furry ball and eyed them with a mix of disinterest and vague alarm. 

Carter sighed. "Great. Even the dog isn't happy without our funny friend with the glasses."

Fusco was about to offer his Dutch for Dummies book again when the phone rang.

"Yeah, Detective Carter."

A man answered on the other end of the line, with a warm, authoritative voice that Carter instinctively picked up as one of their own. "Hello. This is FBI Agent Peter Burke, White Collar division, Manhattan."

Carter dropped the ball she was baiting Bear with, and straightened up, frowning slightly. "How may I help you, agent?"

"Well, one of my colleague called earlier about a Man in a Suit, Agent Jones," The man on the other of the line sounded a little hesitant, "Do you remember?"

"Yes," Carter replied, suspicious. "We get a lot of queries about this Man in a Suit, Agent Burke."

"Right." There was a slight, worried pause. "What can you tell me about him?"

She spared a look at Fusco, who was attempting to lure Bear to the his end of the desk, only to have Bear gnaw at his shoes, annoyed. 

"I can tell you", Carter said slowly, "that he is probably not interested in White Collar crimes."

"Humph." Agent Burke sounded bemused. "You mustn't rob us the opportunity at something exciting, Detective."

Carter sighed. "Look. This Man in a Suit, did he show up around one of your suspects, at potential crime scenes, et cetra et cetra?"

The man on the other end sounded surprised. "Er - you tell me."

Carter rubbed her eyebrows, making a mental note to call Reese and update him later. "All I'm saying is, and I'm saying this as one law enforcement officer to another - if he shows up around one of your suspects, you have to be careful."

"Because he could muddle the waters?"

"Because White Collar shouldn't get mixed with Homicide," Carter said, trying to sound ominous. 

Immediately she could sense the other man tense up. "You think he's a potential suspect?"

"No." Carter was weary of these kind of conversations she had to deal with on a semi-regular basis. "He's trouble alright, but he is not necessarily the source of trouble. His prints and descriptions do show up in multiple crime scenes, but usually, when we catch the perpetrator in the end, it's not him."

The other agent sounded perplexed. "So he just has an unusual knack of turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"You could say that." Carter had a sneaky suspicion that Reese probably turned up at the right place at all the right times, but she knew better than to voice her working theories. "All I know is, whoever he‘s seen or involved with, usually ends up under my jurisdiction. If you know what I mean." 

An ominous silence hang on the line. After a few moments, Agent Burke said, "Thank you, Detective, that will be all."

"Right. I really hope we don't have to work together any time soon," she joked half-heartedly. "Take care now."

Putting down the phone, Carter met Fusco's questioning glance with a grim nod, and went to retrieve her mobile.

 

 

*

 

”Six security cameras, infra red censors, weight trigged alarm system.“ Mozzie hummed as he skimmed the security footage and system planning charts, "Pretty standard stuff, except for the bit where all the cameras are pointed at our desired object, and any attempt to block or disable them will trigger automatic silent alarm."

"Very niche." Neal poured over the building blueprints, looking contemplative. "Are these alarms equipped with night vision?"

"No... I don't think so." Mozzie quickly brought up alternative security arrangements for the evening. "But, what self-respecting museum doesn't have laser-triggered alarm system after dark?"

"After dark..." Neal's head snapped up. "What day is it today, Mozz?"

"Thursday," said Mozzie, nonplussed.

Neal grabbed the laptop and hit a string of search query into the browser. "New York Museum of Art... after dark. Aha!"

He swung the laptop around, and a large advertisement appeared in front of Mozzie's eyes.

"Every Thursday this month, the NYMA will host a 'Love Trail After Dark' event, for couples and art lovers... find your heart's piece under candlelight and with wine... Oh Neal, this actually sounds fantastic."

"Right?" Neal drummed his fingers on the table, eyes lit with excitement.

"Yeah. If I had anyone to go with," said Mozzie wistfully. "Can we return to the more pressing task at hand?"

"What? Mozz." Neal tapped at the security arrangement that they were viewing with his finger. "Look closely. The museum employed three extra security temps this month, but they work only one day in a week. It must be because of this event! In order to accommodate the extra guests after dark, the laser system is turned off, so are the alarm systems in the cameras. They have to reply on extra manpower to look after the pieces."

"Oh." Mozzie eyed the advertisement again in interest. "And as we all know, humans are prone to error, unlike machines."

Neal grinned. "I think I'm going to find myself a date for tonight."

"You are not going to take me?" Mozzie said in mock hurt.

Neal grimaced apologetically. "No offence, Mozz, but I really don't think we'd make a convincing couple."

Mozzie sighed. "Never the glorious work for the short man with little hair. Don't worry, I know my place. I'll be - wait for it - " he flapped his hands about in a dramatic drum-roll way, "- the night janitor."

"Sorry, Mozz."

"Sure. Like you mean it."

Neal rubbed his nose awkwardly. "How long have we got to get things together?"

"Event starts at 8pm. So a little over three hours." Mozzie patted himself down and threw out some fake IDs, keys, and various tools of the trade. "I'd ask if it were possible for you to get a date in such a short time, but I won't insult you. Anyone particular in your mind?"

Neal opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something, then thought better of it. "No. Not yet. I can always take June, though, she could use some time away from the house."

"Mmm." Mozzie gave him an all-knowing glance. "Go. Glam up for your date. I'll wait for you on the inside."

Neal reached the door, hesitated, then turned back. "It's just a trial run, Mozz. We need to have Peter involved if we are going to make it right next week."

Mozzie nodded, unflustered. "We'll extend an olive branch to our Irish friends, show them that we have every intention of paying the debt. Then we will tell them to come and collect said debt next week _at the museum,_ by which time..."

"Yeah." Neal nodded, a half frown on his face. "Maybe it's the idea of being forced into it, but I don't like this, Mozz."

"As the Chinese proverb goes, don't pick a day, make a day." Mozzie grabbed for the takeout, keeping his tone light. "Today's a good day to check out some Francis Bacon as any."

"The Chinese also say cross the bridge when you come to it, right?"

"Precisely." Mozzie looked up from his Kung-Po chicken, eyes with stern concern. "The trick is to keep one foot in front of the other, while keeping the mind three hundred yards ahead, Neal."

 Neal grinned. "And we've never been anything but."

 

 

*

 

Peter turned over a corner, scanning the pedestrian traffic absent-mindedly. The working part of his brain was replaying the conversation he had with Detective Carter earlier - _how the Man in a Suit signalled trouble, though he may not necessarily be a source of trouble_ \- and the ominous feeling those words left hanging in the air. Was Neal in trouble (again)? Or better yet, what trouble was he in this time? 

After that phone call, he had asked Diana to call in favours with her former Interpol friends, to find out more about Neal's past run-ins with the Irish, and whether any  Irish people of suspicious element entered the country recently. The answer was somewhat surprising: it seemed Neal had previously gotten into trouble in London, so much trouble, that, he temporarily disappeared off the grid, emerging in a ferry port in Dublin three days later.

The surveillance footage had shown Neal being escorted away by an Irish man Interpol identified as one of the mob leaders, and Neal looked pretty worse for wear on the tape, but he didn't look like he was in forced custody. Record also show that Neal was back in the States within two days, clearly without much deter from his Irish friends. So why is the Irish mob coming back to look for him now? 

A couple on the sidewalk arguing got his attention. Upon a closer look, Peter realised that they were the exact couple he saw in the restaurant, with the Irish tattoo, tailing Neal and deflecting all his questions. Peter slowed down his car.

Suddenly the woman started to run, and the man, shouting something indistinctive, took off behind her. Peter instinctively followed them, turned around another corner, and saw, to his horror, that the man and pulled out a gun.

"Stop!" Peter jumped out of his car and locked his gun as quickly as humanly possible, and pointed at the man. "FBI! Drop your weapon!"

The man fired a shot; it rang throughout the alley. The woman disappeared into one of the buildings, then two more shots came from the windows above. The man retaliated twice, and quickly followed into one of the building too, leaving the door ajar. Footsteps, muffled cries and more gunshots.

Peter pointed his gun around tentatively, his mind racing. What is this, a mob shoot out? He remembered Carter's comment about how Homicide and White Collar shouldn't mix, and frowned. Something in his gut was heavy, not right...

He was about to reach his phone for backup, when something cold and heavy knocked into the back of his head. Realising, too late, that it was a trap, Peter cursed himself as he pressed hard on his phone. Then his world turned dark, and he fell to the ground.


	6. Chapter 6

"Agent Burke just activated his emergency GPS, Mr. Reese."

Reese was out the door faster than Finch could finish his name. "Can you stop the data from being transferred back to FBI headquarters?"

"I certainly can." Two taps and the bleeping stopped. "I hope you not going to play hero, Mr. Reese."

"Don't worry, Finch, " said Reese, driving down the direction from which the GPS signal was last seen. "I think I know how this is going to play out. While I don't like it any more than you do, the last thing we need is to have a flock of FBI agents on our heels."

"And how will it play out, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, wary.

"The Irish have gotten to Agent Burke. Either holding him hostage, or, more likely, to prevent him from impeding with Caffery's heist plans." Reese stepped on the oil, his voice tense. "Today's not going to be a trial run, Finch. They are going to take the painting, and leave Caffery behind."

 

 

 

*

 

"Wait, Neal!" Mozzie called out suddenly, urgent.

Neal halted at the door. "Yeah?"

"Something's not right." Mozzie's gaze was fixed on the monitor, his face an eerie shade of blue under the screen light. "There's... there's far more outgoing data than there should be on this building's connection."

Neal frowned. "What does that mean? Someone's uploading a lot of content?"

"Someone... from somewhere," Mozzie said, slowly. His eyes turned towards his phone on the desk, and back at the computer. "Oh. Oh no."

 

 

 

*

 

"Mr. Reese, Mr. Caffery and his friend have just found out about our little spying venture."

"I hope your argument of  'surveillance is a way to keep your tenants safe' holds up in court, Finch." 

"That's not all, Mr. Reese," Finch went on unabashed, his voice urgent. "I was able to get a look at Mr. Haversham's impressive data analysis app before they went off the grid. That _is_ far more outgoing data than there should be."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we were not the only people keeping tabs on them, Mr. Reese."

Reese frowned. "Proving my working theory."

 "They've vacated the building, and I'm guessing they are headed for the museum." The tapping stopped on the other end. "I won't be surprised if they meet some unfriendly face there."

Reese pulled out his gun as he swerved to the alley where Peter Burke was last seen. "Fieldwork time, Finch. You need to stop Caffery before he allows the Irish free reign in that museum."

"Already on it, Mr. Reese."

 

 

 

*

 

Neal ran down the steps of the apartment, breathless. "Stick to the plan, Mozz, we don't have much time."

"How?" Mozzie threw out the sim card in their phones, dumped the takeout by the trash, and followed Neal down the street. "If they were listening in, they'd know that we don't plan to play nice."

"Yeah, well, neither do they." Neal glanced at his friend, "It's time to run ahead, Mozz. I say we bring Peter in on this."

"What? Wait, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No, but I don't have a choice." Neal fumbled for his phone, looking slightly panicked. "You know how this debt thing works. If I don't give them what they need, they will come after me _and_ Peter anyway, and I won't let them do anything to Peter, I won't." He waited for the agent to pick up, and upon seeing Mozzie's inquisitive face, added, "At least not before I let him know what I got him into this time. Damn it, he's not picking up."

For a few minutes they waited around the street corner to hail a cab.

"Now what?" Mozzie asked, in alarm, "I need time to prepare if I'm going to work with you on the inside. "

"Yeah. You do that." Neal glanced back at his phone, which remained ominously silent. "Can you secure us an escape route?"

"Have I ever done anything less?" Mozzie said, then, in a more reassuring tone, "Yes. Though I can't imagine what the Suit will say, once he finds out that you have, once again, committed felony in an attempt to save _him_."

Neal gave him a pleading look. "Not now, Mozz."

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "Where are you going to deliver the painting to? FBI evidence lockup?"

Neal snorted. "A good place as any." He looked down at his phone again, still showing no sign of action. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really, _really_ hope Peter catches me in time."

 

 

*

 

Peter woke with a headache. Not unlike the one he had in his junior year in college, in fact, though the taste in his mouth was not of a hangover, but blood. 

He blinked against the ground, remembering what had happened, and why he was there. Then his pulse quickened. _Neal. This has got something to do with Neal_.

Realising that no one noticed he was awake, Peter laid completely still, straining his ears to pick up information around him. The room smelled stuffy, and his ears rang with a piercing noise, probably an aftermath of being knocked out cold, but he was able to make out some part of the conversation that went on near the door. 

"Caffery.. museum... has help... plans to screw us..."

"No he won't... boss said no trace... time he paid debt... just let him do dirty work... switch out painting when he delivers... make sure he has the accident _after_ conviction. You hear?"

Peter's blood suddenly ran cold. Head thumping in pain, he squeezed his eyes shut, hard. The pieces were coming together now, and he wished fervently, wistfully, that for _once_  Neal had told him about the truth upfront, but no, knowing that man, he never does. So the message wasn't just a taunt, it was a debt to be paid. And Caffery was so naive as to think as long as he got what the Irish wanted, they'd kiss goodbye and part ways after that? _No. No. This could not be happening._  They were planning to use Neal all along, and once they'd extracted the paintings from Neal, they'd put back a fake one, and arrange for an 'accident' after Neal was convicted of the theft, alone. _No._

Holding in a deep breath, Peter flexed his fingers tentatively, and realised that they weren't bound. Heart thumping wildly against his ribs, he raised himself, as soundlessly as possible, and reached for his leg, where a hidden handgun was holstered.

"Hey! What do you think -" 

There were a scuffle of noises, a couple of quick gunshots, and on the verge of panic the moment seemed like a blur. Peter rolled away from where he was lying swiftly, pulling out the gun and pointing at the first person he could see standing in front of him. "Don't move, or I'll shoot."

It turned out, the first person he saw was also the last person standing in the room.

"Hullo, agent," said the person in a breathy voice. 

Peter blinked twice to clear the fog in front of his eyes, and saw to his surprise, a man in a suit.

"You." His brain chose this moment to remind him of Carter's remark again, and Peter stared at Reese, unable to determine whether he should be relieved or alarmed. "How did you know I was here?"

"No time for that now, agent," said Reese, pulling him up to shaky feet. "How are you feeling? Up for some action?"

Peter shook out his limbs and searched the premise for his other gun. "I see you've taken care of the action in this room already, agent."

Reese smiled humourlessly, not bothering to correct him. "Your friend Caffery needs help. I daresay he will see some action of his own soon."

Peter turned sharply. "Neal? "

Reese nodded. "He's going after the painting, today. Right now."

Peter cursed under his breath. "Never, _never_ in our entire time working together has he _ever_ tried to warn me, before pulling a stunt like this." He found his handgun and stuffed it back to his pockets, sounding extremely irritated. "The guy has no manners."

Reese watched him with a bemused expression. "Ex-con and FBI agent partnership don't go well?"

Peter gave him an annoyed look, not bothering to ask where he got his information. "Oh, it goes well alright. It's just a bit... unconventional, for my liking." 

It was not in Reese's nature to meddle in other people's personal lives, but just this one time, he relented. "Caffery is doing this to protect you. The Irish threatened to kill you if he didn't deliver what they wanted."

Peter only looked surprised for a second, before his face melted in fond exasperation. "I knew it! Always the lone hero. Well, not this time."

Together, they rushed down the stairs, out of the building, and into the wakeful New York night. 

 

 

 

*

 

Neal held his breath while he pretended to be enjoying an early work of William Sadler. He bid Mozzie goodbye half an hour ago, still unable to get through to Peter, and the growing unease at the pit of stomach was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. Standing among a crowd mostly made of couples, he found the romantic atmosphere rather morose, as he stood and waited for his rescue.

His rescue.

Neal shook his head slightly, chasing that phrase out of his head. It was not the first time his past came back to bite on his ass, and as always, he got himself into this predicament, and he will get himself - and Peter also - out of it.

Standing with his face hidden in shadows of the flickering candle light, Neal could not help but feel a pang in his chest, wishing, wistfully, that his partner was here. 

"Mr. Caffery."

A soft voice said beside him, pulling him out of his reverie. Startled, Neal turned around to see an impeccably dressed man with Tintin-esque haircut and glasses. Before he could reply, the other man spoke again. 

"I know what you are planning to do, but the Irish are one step ahead of you, so don't do it."

The man's lips had barely moved, and he looked like he was simply admiring a particularly dark and ominous piece of landscape work. The words took two seconds to register in Neal's brain, and Neal had to force his face into a blank. "I think you have the wrong person."

The other man was undeterred. "My friend is with Agent Burke at the moment, and they are on their way here. I have just been informed that the Irish is planning a switch when you deliver the painting, have you convicted for the theft, and arrange an accident to happen afterwards. Please, Mr. Caffery." The man's eyes were earnest, though his expression was eerily dark in the shadows, "Let me help." 

Neal swallowed. "You have Peter?"

"No, the Irish had Peter." The man grabbed a glass of wine on a waiter that passed by, and pretended to take a sip. His eyes never left Neal's face. "My friend, the man in a suit, as you will probably remember, helped him, and they are on their way here."

Neal studied the man's face intently for a moment, and in a split-second decision, nodded. "Alright. How can you help?"

"Well, I was thinking - "

The sentence was cut short, just as Neal froze. Something cold and uncannily like a gun was being pushed into his back, and judging by a sidelong glance at the other man's suddenly expressionless face, they were both in the same situation. 

"Now, lads," a voice purred in his ear. "If you'll follow me, this evening is about to get interesting."

 

 

 

*

 

"Did Neal tell you about his plans?" Peter asked tensely, straightening his jacket. "What are we going to do once we get to the museum?"

"You are going to stop Caffery from committing a felony." Reese gave him a dark look. "I will stop Caffery from getting killed."

Peter laughed nervously. "I'm not sure I entrust you with such a monumental task, yet," he said, checking out the rear end mirror. "Remind me why I must work with you?"

"Because I just botched a significant part of their plan," said Reese, his voice low. "Caffery's friends never intended for either of you to live."

"Why am I not finding it hard to believe?" said Peter dryly. Then, after a moment of awkward pause, "Thanks."

Reese shot him an amused glance. "I would switch jobs with you, but I don't know how to prevent an art heist."

Peter laughed again. With more humour, this time. "Then I'd say you've come to the right guy."

Reese slowed down at a red light, and suddenly frowned. 

"What? What is it?" Peter said, picking up the tension immediately. 

"They got to our friends before us," Reese replied, his voice quietly dangerous. 

"Friends?" Peter undid his seatbelt as Reese sped through the crossing again, ready to pounce once the car stopped. "You have a friend with Neal in there?"

"Someone I care about."  Reese glanced at him briefly. "I wouldn't usually ask, but, just in case my hands get full, I need you to keep him safe too."

"From committing a felony, or getting killed?"

"Both. Though I'd say staying alive is the primary objective of everyone in there tonight."

Reese skidded to a stop. In front of them, the museum stood in a shade of changing light, soft and unknowing. He ran two steps up the porch, and paused: "How well can you deal with a fight over jurisdiction with NYPD?" 

Peter didn't miss a beat. "Undesirable, but not impossible." A second of hesitation. "Best to keep off the books, though."

Exchanging a brief look of understanding, both men pulled out their phones, and dialled for their respective backups.


	7. Chapter 7

A loud slam and Finch's back made close contact with the wall. Biting down a cry of pain, he looked up, and found themselves in a disused toilet, _probably in the southeast corner of the museum, where renovations were taking place_. His eyes searched the room for Neal, registering two men guarding the entrance to the bathroom, before finding Neal on the floor.

A third, gruff-looking man tromped into the bathroom. He stalked over to Finch, held what suspiciously like a photo of Mozzie from surveillance footage up into his face, and grunted.

"That's not Caffery's sidekick. He's useless. Get rid of him."

Neal's eyes widened in panic as two men approached Finch with guns poised, ready to strike. "W-Wait! Wait!" 

To Neal's amazement, Finch pushed his glasses up, peered at the two menacing men looming over him, and announced, "Who said I was useless?" 

The gruff-looking man held up a hand and halted his colleagues. "No?"

"Oh, come on." Finch said nonchalantly, his face smug. "You don't honestly think Caffery can operate alone in a well guarded New York Museum, do you? He's a conman, con-MAN." He drew out the words slowly and deliberately, in a patronising voice. "He's the people's person, and I'm the computer guy. Can't you see?" He flexed his fingers in a mock-typing gesture.

The gruff man turned to Neal, his face inquisitive. 

"He's the only one who can disable the alarms," Neal said quickly, wishing fervently that he was telling the truth, "Let go of him."

"Oh yeah?" The gruff man returned the gun to Finch, waving it in circles. Finch wondered at the back of his mind what Reese would say to the man's unprofessional gestures - amateurs, no doubt. A professional never played with his gun like a toy. "Where's your laptop then, genius?"

"Checked in at the cloakroom," said Finch sarcastically. "We weren't due to start till half an hour before the event closes."

"Yeah, well," the man eyed Neal and Finch suspiciously, "Boss gets impatient." He nodded towards one of his men. "Go get this gentleman's laptop, and then we'll see what we do about him."

Desperate, Neal rested his gaze upon Finch, while scoping the room with his peripheral vision. His new friend had clear physical limitations, which means he wouldn't be any help if things turned violent, and Neal was not sure whether he could take down two men by himself, both armed.

It took Neal three full seconds to realise that the other man was blinking at him oddly. Slow, long. Slow, slow, long. 

_Oh_. 

His heart thumping wildly, Neal mentally translated the morse code the other man was giving by blinking.

PETER HERE - PLAY ALONG.

Breathless, Neal nodded. 

 

*

 

Two NYPD detectives and two FBI agents stared at each other, bewildered.

"Right. Quick round of introductions, then," Peter said, "Detectives, this is Special Agent Clinton Jones, and Special Agent Diana Barrigan."

Reese merely lifted his eyebrow and looked at his detectives. 

"Ergh." The woman sighed exasperatedly. "I'm Detective Carter, Homicide."

"Fusco," said the man. "Excuse our friend. He's not the small talk type."

Despite himself, Reese's lips quirk in amusement. "Finch, tell Caffery that all of New York's Finest are here to save him. Don't let him panic."

"He's being sarcastic," said Fusco helpfully. "At least, he thinks I'm an idiot."

"So much confidence, Lionel."

"The task at hand, people!" Peter raised his voice, looking slightly worried at the weird combination of personnel that gathered outside the museum. "Caffery is in trouble. I know, again." He said as his two agents glanced at each other knowingly. "This time, it's for me. Don't ask, just get him out of there."

Jones opened his mouth. "Who -"

"Don't ask," said Peter, shaking his head. "In fact, make that into a ground rule for the night. Don't ask questions, just focus on the task at hand." He finger-called his agents to come closer, while giving the two detectives a significant look. "I want to keep this off the books. If nothing, the paperwork over jurisdiction can bury me. You understand?"

"If you say so, boss."

Reese met the inquisitive looks from his detectives and shrugged. "Not my concern."

"Our friend here - sorry, I didn't catch your name -"

"Jackass would do fine," said Fusco.

"- John," Reese said, appearing not to have heard him. "I have ears on the inside." 

"That's right. John here still has a connection with his friend, Finch, is it? On the inside," Peter nodded his approval, "Let's hope they stay online for the duration of this evening. Caffery is planning a heist."

The two agents groaned in unison. The two detectives, on the other hand, perked up.

"A heist?" Fusco asked, eyeing Peter with interest. "Like Ocean's Eleven heist?"

"Don't let Caffery hear you say that," said Peter dryly. "What's the situation like inside?"

"They are holding Caffery and Finch captive." Reese said, straining to make out background noise in his ear. "Inside the museum somewhere... They are holding Finch hostage, while Caffery extracts the painting for them."

"And Neal can pull it off?" Peter eyed the crowd questioningly. "In a late-night opening such as this?"

"Exactly because of this," Reese said, smiling slightly. In his ear, Finch was explaining their planned action over in excruciating detail, while the mobsters tutted in impatience. Clearly it wasn't for the bad guys' benefit. "Caffery is going to scope the area and mingle with the crowd, until half an hour before the museum closes. Then they will - "

Reese stopped, and for a moment, looked astonished. 

"Caffery just told his captors that he was due to meet a date as cover for the evening." He scanned the people in front of him. "Who will it be?"

 

*

 

"So as you can see, the main security hole is in the switchboard," Finch's blabber drew near a finish, "if I can get through to that, I can disable the museum completely, and turn in it a free house."

Their captor grunted. "See that you do." He cocked his gun, and pulled out a mobile phone, waving it threateningly in front of Neal. "One phone call. One phone call is all it takes, and your friend, the guy in a suit, dies."

Both Neal and Finch looked up at the use of that phrase, but it was Neal who spoke. "If you are here under diplomatic cover, you really shouldn't kill an federal agent. It's not polite."

The gruff man laughed. "Boss always liked your humour, he did." He wiggled his phone. "Don't worry. My friends are going to bring him over in a minute, so he can join our little party."

Neal arched a brow. "You want the feds in on the heist?"

"Oh no, no no no." The man waved a finger, as if playing with a small child. "He's our escape plan."

A thick, tense silence hang in the air, and Neal was surprised when Finch piped up.

"So you are going to bring Agent Burke here, use him as a hostage, and once we are done, return him to his normal duty, so he can arrest Caffery?"

"Oh look!" The gruff man said in malicious glee, tipping up Finch's chin. "Our little geek here is not useless after all." Keeping his eyes fixed on Neal, he whispered to Finch's ear, "But don't you worry. Everything is going to be fine. Neither of you will make the news, if you behave."

"Ingenius plan," Neal muttered, his eyes fixed upon Finch. "Who do you think will arrive first? My date, or Agent Burke?"

"Depends on the traffic," said the gruff man sarcastically. He glanced at his watch. "Show time soon. Tell me, is your date hot, Caffery?"

Neal opened his mouth but Finch cut him short. "Depends on your idea of hot," he said. 

Both men glanced at him. Neal in alarm, the captor in interest.

"Oh, you don't know?" Finch tilted his head sideways, an innocent smirk on his face. "Mr. Caffery here is meeting a man tonight."

 

*

 

Five pair of eyes stared back at him, while Reese appeared motionless and transfixed on the sidewalk, one hand in his ear.

"Boss?" Diana prompted, sparing a glance at her Peter. "Shall I go in now?"

"Yeah." Peter said, still eyeing Reese warily. "Diana knows Neal, and she has a lot of undercover experience. Sorry, detective."

"Hey, it's all fine by me," said Carter, throwing her hand up in the air. "I love to get away from bodies and all, but far be it for me to botch an art heist."

"Right." Peter nodded to his agents, "Diana, you meet with Caffery and help him in whatever you can. Jones, cover the rear exit. Detectives, if you can cover the two side exits. We should pair up and blend in the crowd. I will -"

"Wait." Reese finally spoke, his voice low as usual, yet somewhat authoritative enough so that everyone stopped what they were doing and turned. He met the inquisitive eyes with a blank expression. "Caffery wants a man for his date."

There was a moment of startled pause.

"He can't possibly mean me," Peter said finally, frowning. "He knows that if I show up, then his captors will know the other end of their operation is botched. It's too risky."

Reese nodded his agreement. "In fact, I think your part comes in later." He told them about the proposed plans of bringing Peter over and using him as an integral part of the mobster's operation, except that the mobsters in the museum was not yet aware the other end had fallen through.

"So, I stumble into the museum later, pretending that I was brought over there by the bad guys." Peter said out loud, mulling it over in his head. "I act the part until Caffery hands over the painting to the Irish, and I strike, arresting them before they can make a switch."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Which leaves us with the question - who's going in as Caffery's date, right now?"

Another moment of worried silence.

"Well - I'm not going in," said Jones in the end, extremely alarmed. "I don't think Caffery and I make a convincing couple."

Fusco shifted uncomfortably on his spot. "Hey, don't look at me. I don't even know the guy."

"He specifically wants a guy for his date?" Diana said, half incredulous, half wary. "Why?"

Carter just narrowed her eyes at Reese. "This Caffery character didn't say that. I bet our friend with the glasses did."

Reese shot her a glance of surprise. "Very intuitive, detective."

"Yeah, well, that makes sense now." Fusco snorted, "Glasses probably feels safer around you, than any of _us_."

"Your friend set _you_ up with _my_ Neal?" Peter stepped closer, his face full of disbelief. Behind him, Jones and Diana exchanged an uncertain look.

"Yes, _my_ Finch set me up with _your_ Neal," Reese repeated pointedly, sounding no less displeased about it. He could hear Finch on the other end of the line talking still, and could swear that he heard Finch's voice falter for a split second.

Carter surveyed the two men back and forth. "This Caffery person. What's he like?" The question was directed at no one in particular.

"Charming." Peter couldn't think of a better word that described Neal. "Warm. Mischievous. Annoying sometimes. He is an ex-con, you know. All smiles when you want him."

The corner of Reese's lips twitched.

Fusco laughed mercilessly. "Oh, I can just picture you two snogging under the mistletoe." Even Carter sniggered.

"Yeah..." The agents looked at Reese, sympathetic worry evident on their faces. "Caffery really is something."

"It's not easy being Caffery's date," Diana advised him, "Sometimes you just have to resist the urge to punch him."

"I wouldn't go anywhere near Caffery's all smiles," said Jones, helpful. "Nothing good has ever come out of it."

Reese made a mental note to put salt tablets in Finch's green tea later. "Appreciate your concern, agents, detectives, but a gentleman is never late for his date." He straightened his suit. "Agent Burke. I trust you will take good care of my detectives?"

"Of course," said Peter, unsure of whether he should look encouraging or menacing. "Take good care of Neal for me, now."

Reese nodded to them one last time. "See you inside."

 

*

 

The gruff man pushed open the bathroom door, waving his phone and gun for the last time. 

"Remember, one phone call, and your agent friend dies. Call the police or try to run, and your geek friend dies. Don't deliver the painting by 11pm, and all of you die. Understood?"

Neal gave Finch one last hard look, and nodded. "Where should I meet you to deliver the painting?"

"The alley two blocks down, behind Griffin's Head," said the man, gesturing at one of the guards to leave. "My friends here will wait for you there. Don't be late..." he made a two fingered gesture of a gun. "or bang."

 


	8. Chapter 8

Reese crept up to Neal. "Hi," he said breathily, in an attempt to look familiar and friendly.

Neal turned, gasped in surprise, and quickly pulled him into an embrace. Reese froze for a brief second, before forcing him into patting the man's back.

"You are not my type," said Neal in his ear, all smiles.

Making a mental note to kill Finch later, Reese replied sarcastically, "you are not my type either." 

When they pulled apart, they both appeared to be delighted in finding each other. As they exchanged 'how-are-you's and 'it's-been-too-long's, Reese thought he heard Finch sigh in his ear.

"This is painful." Finch said. Then after a deliberate pause, "The switchboard firewall is so complicated."

Reese grinned. There _was_ no such thing as a too complicated firewall for Finch.

"So, what do you want to do now?" said Neal brightly. "I hear they have an early work of Francis Bacon here. I'm excited."

Reese mmmed his consent, surreptitiously scoping out the security guards and the camera angles. 

"They are in the southeast corner, the part that's being renovated. Disused bathroom." Neal pointed at one of the paintings and whispered, looking for all his part, commenting on the brushstrokes. "Two guards and a mob leader. One left to prepare for pickup, two alleys down."

Reese gave a curt nod as acknowledgement. He had no doubt that Finch was able to disable the museum's alarm systems, however sophisticated they may be, but Finch had no control over humans. The guards that hovered near the exists, blowing out candles and turning on the lights, calling for the couples to draw their evening to a close - they had done nothing to warrant a bullet in their knee. He hoped against hope that the White Collar agents had their own back up plan.

Neal slid his arms into Reese's, which got his attention. All smiles again, Neal asked, "How's our friend -" he mouthed the word 'Peter' - "Morris?"

"He's fine," Reese said. Then, tilting his head sideways just a touch mischievously, "He's not too pleased that we are going out, though."

"Oh?" Neal's eyebrows arched. Reese did not need to search the man's face to find that he was heartened with the news. He was, however, beginning to feel a little idiotic as he realised he was close to playing cupid.

As if able to read his mind, Neal said, somewhat inconsequentially, "Your friend is impressive."

It was Reese's turn to eye him in interest. "How so?"

"He knows how to bat his eyelashes." Neal made a demonstration by spelling out 'HE CARES'.

Reese nearly laughed. "He does."

Moving along with a demising crowd, Neal leaned closer, and whispered, "It's one thing to keep someone out of the loop in order to protect him, it's quite another to deliberately invite him in the loop, so you can face something together."

"Oh really?" Reese found himself wondering what Finch's expression would be on the other end of the line.

"Yeah." Neal said, his face soft and gaze intent, though Reese knew that Neal was not looking at him. "It takes more courage, and more trust." Neal dropped his gaze to the ground. "I may have a thing or two to learn from you."

As the line stayed silent in his ear, Reese wondered whether Finch was hearing this, and whether he was thinking the same thing.

 

*

 

"Stranger things have happened under my watch, Mr. Suit." Mozzie said as soon as he picked up the phone. "Why is Neal flirting with a stranger, and where are you?"

Peter bit back a laugh. "It's a long story. Right now, we need your help." He gestured for the remaining agents and detectives to blend in the crowd at the different exits, and went in himself. "What was your original role in the plan?"

"I'm the escape route," said Mozzie.

"Well, now _I_ 'm the escape route," Peter quickly told him of the plan change. "I need you to make sure that the switch doesn't happen, so they don't strike before we do."

"On it, Suit."

 

*

 

Finch eyed the guard warily. "Can I at least get some water? I am doing hard work over here."

The guard grunted. "Drink from the tap."

"The amount of chlorine in bathroom taps can make you ill, you know," said Finch in distaste. "Is this how the Irish treat their business partners?"

Their gruff leader waved for the guard to get a drink. "No playing foul, geek."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Finch cheerily. He dialled Neal's number. "I just saw the front door security take an early night on the surveillance camera. You are down to six guards in the museum, two on each exit."

"I see." Neal sounded calm, prepared, ready to strike. Finch couldn't help but note an uncanny similarity between him and Reese, immediately before the action. "And the alarms?"

"To be shut with a single tap, on your command."

"Excellent. We just need the last few bystanders to clear before we begin." 

Finch tapped on the keyboard and brought up the security feeds in the exhibition hall. Without night imaging technology, the images were grainy and unclear, though the sight of Detective Carter and Fusco appearing arm in arm was not a sight to be missed, by even the most short-sighted.

The gruff man looked up from clearing his gun. "What?"

"Nothing," Finch quickly hid his expression of amazement. Another couple appeared on screen, hand in hand. Finch guessed they were FBI agents. "We may have a few witnesses."

"Good," said the man in malicious delight. "Makes conviction that much easier."

Finch gave him a dirty look and returned to the screen. "Ah! Agent Burke is here."

The mob leader didn't look the least bit affected. "Right on time for the show." He stood up, came over to where Finch was sitting, and unexpectedly punched a grubby finger into the keyboard.

The call immediately ended. 

"I suppose you are wondering why we let an FBI agent run around in our operation," said the man smoothly, as Finch looked up, startled. Leaning over the laptop and closing in the gap, Finch could nearly feel the man's breath on his face, and he positively recoiled.

"Because you threatened him that you'd kill me, if he didn't comply?" Finch tried to keep his voice steady.

The man laughed. "Naive, Americans." He pulled back and began toying with his gun again. "When my friends met with Agent Burke earlier this evening, we gave him a tiny gift." He patted his shirt pocket and squeezed his fingers together. "Tiny-tismal. If Agent Burke doesn't play nice, then one press of the button -" He gestured towards the phone again, "And it goes, bang." Animated hands making an exploding gesture. "Not too big! No." The man's face was full of malicious glee, "It'd look like a gunshot wound. Straight to the chest." He cocked his head, staring at Finch, mirthful. "It's a shame that he won't live long enough to get to arrest Caffery himself. A real shame. Yeah. He's just fodder."

Finch stared back at him, at a loss for words.

 

*

 

Reese fought hard against his instinct to look at the FBI agent, who was hovering near the entrance of the exhibition, talking casually with a security guard. It never occurred to him why the mobsters left Peter lying on the ground, waiting for him to recover, but now it made sense - they had already planted the threat, and simply needed the man to wake so they could actually threaten him. 

"Are you OK?" Neal was eyeing him intently.

Taking a deep breath, Reese grabbed Neal's hand. With an iron grip that looked like a loving caress, he held Neal firm, and tapped in the centre of his palm.

CODE - BLACK - PETER

Neal's eyes widened by a fraction and his breath caught. Slightly panicked, he stared at Reese, eyes pleading.

"Remote controlled," Reese said simply, "My friend will take care of it. Keep Burke out of the delivery - they plan to knock him out and leave him here at the crime scene."

"So it'd look like I shot him while I was after the painting," said Neal, catching up quickly. "God, they don't know me at all."

Reese glanced at him. "Aversion to firearms?"

"Aversion to violence in general," said Neal. He hesitated. "Thanks."

Reese made no reply.

More and more lights came on as candles were blown out. The guards were calling the events to a close, and out of the corner of his eye, Reese saw a night janitor pushing past slowly, and picking up trash on his way. Neal's suddenly straightened up, looking like he was ready to pounce.

"Who wants leftover wine and cheese?" The janitor called, beckoning the remaining security guards closer. "Grab 'em before I dump 'em." When nobody moved, he rolled his eyes and grabbed a bite for himself. "Fine, I'll just help myself. It's not like I can afford to buy such good wine with my pitiful pay. Such a waste, I say!"

Tentatively, guards came together and reached out for the leftover nibbles. At first, some of them remained watchful at the couples that hang back, but soon they were conversing with each other, exchanging customer stories, and complaining about their rate of pay.

"To temporary workers of New York!" the janitor toasted. "May our minimum wage rise threefold in five years!"

"Hear, hear," the guards muttered, and all drank.

There was a moment of watchful, worried silence.

"It's late," the janitor yawned. "Come on, finish up guys. I need to clean the whole damn thing before I can go home and hit the bed."

Some of the guards reached for a second helping, but they soon realised their hands were shaking, and their eyes fogged up. "Wh-"

One by one, they slumped against the table, and onto the floor. "Call - the - police," the last of them slurred, his eyes unfocused at the direction of the two stunned couples left in the hall. "Call - the -"

And they fell asleep.

The janitor lowered his glass. "Well?" he pointedly looked at Neal, and then at Jones and Diana, still arm in arm, pretending to be a newly wed. "What are you waiting for?"

Holding up his phone, Neal spared one last glance to Peter, hoping to convey some meaning in his desperate eyes. "Now."

Nothing happened. 

Then, Neal extended his hand inside the 'please do not cross' line, and still, nothing happened.

"You have a 90 second window before the emergency alarm gets triggered," said Finch, on speaker. The room was so silent that everyone heard him. 

"I need a hand here," said Neal, attempting to pull the painting off the wall. 

Agent Jones and Diana leapt to action first, with Detective Carter and Fusco quickly following suit. 

"I cannot believe I am helping Caffery remove a multi-million dollar painting from the wall," said Jones, amidst Neal's 'careful! careful now!' warnings. 

"Hey, I find this exciting," said Fusco, grinning. "Beats grimy HR work any day."

"I'm not sure my hands are trained to deal with expensive inanimate objects," said Carter, though she too looked a little flustered. "Does this happen often in White Collar? Cos I may have underestimated your department."

Jones snorted. "No, this only happens under Caffery."

"Why _are_ we helping Caffery carry out a heist anyway?" Diana asked, though she never stopped what she was doing. "Isn't it better just to round up the bad guys and be done with it?"

"It's complicated," said Neal breathlessly. "Long story short, they will not stop coming after me or Peter until I deliver them this particular object, or make this object so undesirable for them that they will stop asking for it."

"And where is Peter?" Jones asked, peering around.

Neal looked up. Both Peter and Reese were nowhere to be found.

 

*

 

"Boss, something's not right."

The guard came back with water, phone in hand. 

"I tried calling the lads, but they aren't answering."

"Not even O'Brien?" The gruff man stood up, gripping his gun. "Call again."

Finch rested his hands tentatively on the keyboard, holding his breath.

"Still no answer."

The gruff man turned abruptly and snarled. "I warned you lot. I was polite."

Finch's eyes widened in alarm, and his face turned pale. 

"Go find Caffery in the hall and bring him," the man ordered, staring at Finch with malicious intent. "Leave the geek to me."

The guard nodded and took off without comment.

"How quickly can you adapt to the dark, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked suddenly, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him.

A split second of confusion from his captor was all the time he needed for Reese's answer to come back. "Quickly enough."

"Take care, Mr. Reese."

As the other man raised his gun, Finch hit a final enter on the keyboard, and the world went dark.

 

*

 

"What just happened?"

"Power cut. Why is there a power cut?"

"Was this part of the plan, Caffery?"

" _No_. God, Peter has a bomb on him."

"Peter has _what_?"

"Oh boy. I knew this would turn into a Homicide investigation sooner or later."

"Shush! Neal, what the hell is happening?"

"I don't know. They want us both dead. Stay here. I'm going to find Peter."

A resounding gunshot echoed somewhere not too far, and they all fell silent.


	9. Chapter 9

Bang.

Finch flinched; trying to keep his hands steady. The monitor on the laptop was dark, but a faint white light signalled that the computer was still on. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and he would not feel the extent of his injuries for at least another few minutes.

"Oh you will be sorry, you son of a bitch, you will be sorry..."

A small blue light came on somewhere in the room, as his captor tried to fumble with his phone using one hand. Finch squared his jaw and danced his fingers over the keyboard, a drop of sweat gathering on the tip of his nose.

"Say goodbye to your FBI friend -" Finch entered a final tap on the keyboard, again - "geek."

The gruff man pressed down the button with hateful fervour, and nothing happened. He pressed again.

"What the hell?"

"You see, the thing about technology is, it can be manipulated by geeks," said Finch, his voice faint, coming from a corner. "Right now, as they say, there is no signal."

Cursing, the man kicked away the phone and moved in closer. 

"I bet a bullet don't need signal to travel to your brain," he sneered.

Finch stared into the thinning darkness, his eyes beginning to adjust. His ears strained to pick up the familiar footsteps, there were a scurry of them, hurried, urgent, but they were far... still too far. He raised his index finger again.

"And on the first day God said..." Finch recited in a mesmerising voice, briefly throwing the other man off guard, "Let there be light."

Light flooded the room.

 

 

*

 

"Aww! Geez! I know Glasses has magic with computers and all, but do you think you can quit playing with the lights? It hurt my eyes!"

"Talking to deaf ears here, Fusco." Carter squinted around. "In fact, I think that's the whole purpose of this shenigan."

"Whoever your friend is, he's clever." Diana said, making a quick survey of the hall. "It takes time for an untrained eye to adjust to the light, same as it takes time to adjust to the dark."

"Yeah. Not much help though, if there's gonna be a bomb."

"If Neal is right, then we need to call backup." Diana pulled out her phone, then arched a brow. "No signal. Of course there is no signal."

"Oh, glasses is good," Fusco exchanged a glance of appreciation with Carter, oddly proud of their friend.

"Right. Let's get this painting out of here so we can make the culprit red-handed, and go home."

"Hear hear. Now, does any of you know how to extract a multi-million painting from its frames, without damaging it?"

Realisation dawning upon them, all four of New York's Finest stopped what they were doing, and stared at each other once more.

 

 

*

 

Finch winced as another shot missed him narrowly by inches. 

"Oh, you like games, do you?" said the man, rubbing his eyes and squinting. "Computer voodoo. I get it now. You are annoyed that I called you a geek."

"It's not the worst name I've heard," said Finch. "One more enter and we go back to darkness."

The man laughed ruthlessly. "You think I'm going to fall for that again? My gun - "

But his gun wasn't faster than Finch's tap, for Finch had far more experience in typing than any man would have had in pulling the trigger. 

 

 

*

 

"Great. Blind again."

"What are we going to do with the painting? Caffery's the only one who knows how to extract a painting without damaging it."

"Yeah. I'm not doing it, this painting is way above my pay grade."

"The janitor. The janitor!"

"I did wonder. He an inside man as well? This Caffery person has strange friends."

"Oi! Short funny guy with no hair! Show yourself! We need your help!"

The sound of someone sweeping the floor made them fall silent again. In the far corner of the hall, someone chuckled. 

"Never thought I'd see this day come, agents. You needing my help."

 

 

*

 

The last gunshot promptly made Finch's ear deaf. Adrenaline still pumping, his touched the side of his head tentatively, just to check that it was still there, and was met with a pair of firm hands. 

"----"

He couldn't hear anything beside the ringing in his ear, but his instincts told him what he needed to know, so he pushed himself into those warm hands.

"MR. REESE! IS THAT YOU? I'M ALRIGHT, I THINK, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

"-- No need to shout, Harold," Reese's voice sounded faint and far, but he also sounded bemused. Finch still couldn't see out the dark, so he stared at the direction of that voice. 

"Right on time as usual, Mr. Reese." Finch swallowed back some of the fear that had been rising in his chest, "Thank god."

"When have I ever let you down, Finch?" Reese's voice said, closer now. Finch could feel the other man's body warmth, though the sound still fluttered like a broke radio. He could feel Reese's hands stroking his face, shoulders, then body, checking for injuries, and his heart thumped relentlessly against his chest. 

"Never." Finch said, finally able to make out a dark figure in front of him. He hoped his voice was soft. "You never let me down, Mr. Reese."

Reese's hands returned to the side of his head, cupping his cheek. Finch widened his eyes, startled. 

"I have a contingency plan for you too, Finch." said Reese, even quieter than usual. From what he felt, Finch figured Reese was trying to apply pressure behind his ear. His head throbbed in pain as firm hands massaged a particularly sore point, and Finch was nearly distracted from processing what Reese had just said. As the piercing ring faded in his ear, suddenly Reese's voice came back into sharp focus, and he heard the man say:

"Your contingency plan is me."

 

 

*

 

"Peter! Peter! Hold up!"

Sparing a look at Reese, who was two levels above him, speeding up the stairs three at a time and without a halt, Peter gave up his pursuit, and paused at the sound of Neal's cry. "Neal? What happened?"

Neal bounced up the stairs, having no problems navigating in the sudden dark. "Take off your jacket. Take it off!"

Looking startled at the urgency in Neal's voice, Peter complied. "Why?"

Neal caught up with him, grabbed the jacket and gave it a good shook. When nothing came out of it, he lifted his gaze to Peter, flung himself forward, and patted Peter down.

"Wh- Neal, what are you doing? Neal!'

Neal grabbed the front of Peter's shirt, and with an urgent whisper, said, "Take it off."

Peter was completely bewildered. "I'm not - Hey! Hey! I'm gonna be naked if you do that!"

"Off," said Neal, fumbling at the buttons, then giving up and tearing the shirt apart, breathing heavily.

Something pooled in his chest and Peter was not sure whether it was panic or arousal. "Are you drugged?" He asked uncertainly, giving only a half-hearted struggle as Neal pinned him with surprisingly strong arms and proceeded to peel the shirt off his body. 

"No, I'm not drugged," said Neal, lifting something small from the shirt pocket carefully with his fingers. The lights came on conveniently at that moment, and he held it up in front of Peter, squinting. "But you were planted with a bomb."

"What? This tiny thing?" Peter said, trying to salvage what dignity he had left, from being naked in a stairwell. It had been easier when it was dark. "I could've thrown it out the moment I realised it was there. Hardly threatening." 

"Tailor designed so when it goes off it looks like an impact gunshot," said Neal, studying it carefully. There was some sort of transmitter attached to the tiny amount of explosive, and the light was off. Neal pondered for a moment, gave a cursory glance to the jacket lying in a heap on the floor, back at Peter, then frowned. "Your trousers."

"I am not taking off my trousers here too," said Peter. "No. I don't care what you say."

The lights flipped off again. Darkness surrounded him, offering odd comfort.

"What is going on here?" Peter wondered out loud, a little agitated.

"Just -" Neal began exasperatedly, but thought better of it. "I'll do it."

"Do what?" Peter was definitely alarmed now.

Without another word, Neal stuck his hands down Peter's trouser pockets, groping, his face tight in intense concentration. Peter rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "The things that happen to me since we got together, Caffery."

Ignoring him, Neal probed carefully, until his hands paused and produced another small device. 

"A paired device with an automatic switch-on," said Neal, his voice surprisingly level. "Throw one out and another one explodes."

Peter grimaced. "What happened to good old fashioned strap-it-around-your-waist bombs?"

"But I don't understand." Neal studied the device again, appearing oblivious to Peter's comments. "It should have gone off when I took off your shirt...unless..." He pulled out his phone. "Of course. There is no signal."

Peter let out a long huff of breath. "I'm guessing we owe it to your new friend up there."

"Yeah." Neal let out a sigh of relief too. "Yeah. I hope Mozzie don't get too upset, for his stolen thunder."

"Oh, Mozzie had his own thunder alright," said Peter, witnessing a part of the janitor debacle before he took off after Reese. "Throw that out, will you?" He said, pushing open the stairwell window with his shoulder. 

Neal did what he was told. Then, turning around in a bright smile, he announced, "You look good naked, Peter."

The agent gave him a dirty, but not unamused, look. "If you really wanted to see me naked, you could've just asked."

"I did. You thought I was on drugs."

Neal was grinning again, all teeth. But nothing on his partnership's face escaped Peter, and he could tell the younger man was tracing his chest, an intense look on his face. Then, maybe it was the false safety of the darkness, or the aftermath of the adrenalines pumping, but for a brief moment Peter felt uninhibited, and he bent down to kiss Neal's forehead. 

He was not very surprised, at least not as surprised as he should be, when his lips instead met with something far warmer and softer. Neal was kissing him back, intent and full of meaning, and Peter felt his chest tighten. 

After a long moment they pulled back. Peter tried to search for unspoken words, an understanding in his partner's eyes, and he tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse. "I - "

The light suddenly came on in the stairwell, blinding them temporarily. Both men adjusted quickly, blinking owlishly at each other, surveying their current situation, and the moment dissipated.

"The painting!" said Neal, suddenly wary. "None of the agents know how to remove the painting from the frame. They'd better not damage it!" 

"With their pay, they wouldn't dare," said Peter, putting on his jacket and zipping it close, hoping that no one would be able to tell that he was naked underneath. "Where and when is the pickup?"

Neal glanced at his watch. "In 10 minutes. Two alleys down, behind Griffin's Head. One of the men is on his way already."

"Do you think our mystery friends will be fine by themselves?" Peter spared a glance upstairs, where sparing shots could be heard. As if on cue, there was a howl, and a badass looking guy rolled down the stairs, crying out in pain as he clutched his bloody knees. 

"I daresay so," said Neal dryly. "This Suit clearly has a more hands on approach than you, Peter."

Peter thought about telling the man how hands on he could be, but decided against it for the moment. "Come on. Let's wrap this thing up before anyone else gets hurt."

 

 

*

 

"What are you amateurs doing around a multi-million dollar painting?" said Mozzie with a maddening air of condescension. "Away from it, all of you. Now."

The agents looked annoyed, the detectives confused. "What do you suggest we do then, to make sure these people don't come after Caffery and compromise Peter again?"

"Simple." Mozzie pulled out a rolled sheet of painting and spread out on the floor. It was an exact copy of the Francis Bacon. "That's the switch they were going to use on Caffery. As the Chinese say, let them have a taste at their own medicine."

"Use the fake as evidence for their theft," said Diana, impressed. "What about the real one, then?"

"Oh, it'll go into maintenance for a few days," said Mozzie airily. "By the time they authenticate the painting as a fake, the news would have been made and the connection secured, that if they ever come back for the real one, they'd be number one suspect internationally." 

"To make the object as undesirable as possible," said Jones. "Good plan."

All of them looked up at the sound of incoming footsteps. Two detectives reached for their weapons instinctively, though the agents were quick to recognise the steps that came towards them.

"Peter! And Caffery. Alive and kicking is what we like to see." said Jones, sounding pleased.

"There is a bleeding man on the stairs whom I will leave to your jurisdiction," said Peter breathlessly, rushing in, only nodding as a way of hello. The two detectives exchanged a glance and rushed off. "How far along are we with the paintings?" 

Mozzie made a welcoming gesture at the floor, where the the fake laid. "Tempting as it may be, I wouldn't trust your agents's handiwork when it comes to a genuine Francis Bacon." He eyed the painting with regret. "The real beauty will have to go into maintenance."

"Careful, Mozz," Neal quipped, "Or the FBI will have to put you on a pay roll too."

"Alright, let's move, let's move," Peter waved for Neal to gather up the painting, glancing at the watch in agitation. "Jones, Diana, the deliver is going down in less than 5 minutes. We have the element of surprise. I want you to surround that alley and make sure no one gets out."

"Sure thing, boss." Diana unholstered her gun. "Are you going with Caffery?"

"Yes, but I won't be making an appearance straight away," said Peter. "They think I'm knocked out cold here. That's why we have the element of surprise."

With a final look of affirmation, Peter nodded at his agents. "Let's do this."

 

 

*

 

"What did I say, Carter? I knew this would turn into a homicide investigation, one way or another."

Fusco holstered his gun exasperatedly as he entered the room, eyeing the two men in the corner warily. 

"Yeah. Except we have our shooter right here." Carter followed him into the bathroom, her eyes alarmed. "Are you two alright?"

"I'm afraid can't hear you very well, detectives," said Finch, his voice louder than usual. "The last bullet damaged my hearing somewhat."

Reese didn't turn. He knew what Carter was going to say, and he cut her short. "He was going to kill Finch, and I wouldn't have allowed that."

"No taking out kneecaps like the one in the staircase?" said Carter sarcastically, though in her heart she knew Reese had no choice. "This is a hot mess. How are we going to explain this in the report?"

"You'll think of a way," said Reese, smirking as he saw Fusco mouthed the same words, mocking. "New York's Finest as you are."

Carter huffed. "Glasses alright? No lasting damage to his brain?"

"I can't hear you, Detective."

"I said you are a brave idiot to pull a stunt like this," said Carter, louder, only a touch mocking. "You could have been killed."

"Worried? I wasn't worried." Finch's gaze flickered to Reese's face briefly. "I have faith in my friends in and outside of law enforcement."

The two detectives grimaced in good humour. Gifting him with a small, genuine smile, Reese pulled Finch up.

"Take your laptop. Caffery and Burke may still need our help yet."


	10. Chapter 10

"Mr. Caffery."

Neal stepped out of the shadows, sheet of painting rolled under his arm. Wary, he nodded acknowledgement to the dark figures standing opposite him.

"It's been a long time."

"You don't write, you don't call," said the man in a long coat. "I was beginning to think that saving the life of a world-renowned criminal meant nothing in our books."

"Oh, it meant something alright," said Neal breathily. "I never thanked you properly for your hospitality in Dublin."

"I'm glad you remember, Mr. Caffery."

"Though, I have to say," Neal continued as if he hadn't heard the other man, "I should thank you more for your hospitality in London."

The other man stilled.

"That's right," said Neal, his voice soft, mesmerising, yet intense. "I know it was you who tipped Scotland Yard, and drove me to the docks. Imagine my surprise when you turned up to rescue me, knight in shiny armour and all."

The other man let out a harsh laugh. "I underestimate you, Mr. Caffery."

"Take your painting," Neal said, extending out his hand, expressionless, his voice stone cold. "And send my regards to Moriarty." 

The man in a long coat nodded for his underlings to take the painting, and turned away. 

"Make the call."

Suddenly Neal found himself staring at five, six, seven gunpoints and, to the mobster's surprise, he smiled and relaxed.

 

 

*

 

"911, what's your emergency?"

"There's a man two alleys down from the museum... he seems to have tripped, and is unconscious."

"Can you see any injuries on the patient?"

Pause.

"He's bleeding from his legs. Someone took out his kneecap."

_Click._

"I must say, if I didn't know better, Mr. Reese, I'd think your iconic approach is gaining international renown."

Finch ended the rerouted call and glanced at Reese, whose lips quirked into a tiny smile. 

"I think I'll leave Mr. Caffery's rescue to his agent," said Reese lazily, cocking his gun. "There are of plenty kneecaps to go around."

 

 

*

 

"So I'm guessing we are not even yet," Neal quipped, pointedly not looking at the guns. 

"Sorry, Caffery." The man tossed a roll of painting back at him, his tone anything but apologetic. "Here's how it's _really_ gonna work: I leave the painting here with you, shoot your legs, and you better hope that American emergency service is as good and fast as they claim. They will come and find you with the painting, a botched heist, no doubt, and you will spend a long vacation in prison."

"Not a very elegant plan."

"Doesn't have to be." The man flashed him a toothy smile briefly, though the smile never reached his eyes. "Just long enough to let us out of the country."

One of the men pulled the safety back on his gun, and despite his best intentions, Neal tensed a little.

"Wait." The man held up a hand, as if he had forgotten something. "Where are my manners, eh? I nearly forgot about Agent Burke."

He pulled out his phone and punched a few buttons. Neal looked up as a loud noise, sounding uncannily like gunshots, went off in the direction of the museum. 

"And you have just killed him when you tried to take the painting," said the man, sweetly. "Now where were we."

Watching the men as they lowered their gun to his knee, Neal suddenly jerked to the side. 

"Now!"

 

 

*

 

Finch had to watch the surveillance tape at half-speed to make out what had happened after Neal's exclaim. First, Peter pounced from the corner, taking down the closest gunman to Neal with a single shot. Then Reese promptly took out the mob leader's kneecap, sending him to flail and fall back, knocking out one of his own. Jones and Diana fired two shots each, into the shoulder blades of the remaining gunmen, causing their weapons to drop as they howled in pain. To Finch's amusement, he saw Reese give an almost imperceptible nod of approval to the two agents - (though the agents were not aware) - before turning away to stamp a feet onto the mob leader, who was struggling to get up.

"Shouldn't be doing that any time soon," Reese purred. "Where is the painting?"

The man writhed in pain, but to his credit, still managed to grit out an answer. "Caffery has it."

"What, this thing?" Peter came over and flattened the painting in front of him. It was a drawing of a short, bald man with glasses, in a night janitor's outfit, sweeping the floor. "Hmm. Not exactly Francis Bacon."

"What? How? But -" 

"Boss, we found it." Jones and Diana finished patting down the minions for weapons, and produced a carefully folded sheet. "I'd say we are looking at a very long vacation in prison indeed."

Barely keeping his head above water in the pain, the man threw Neal a cold, hateful look, before allowing himself to be cuffed.

"Moriarty will hear of this, you know."

"I have no doubt he will," said Neal darkly. Then, glancing at Peter, who was staring at him with an frown on his face, he said, in a lighter tone, "But that will be a story for another day."

 

 

*

 

"Anti-climatic. Does it seem anti-climatic to you?" Fusco asked as he watched the paramedics carry the body and the guy with no kneecaps off. "I think I heard more gunshots somewhere down there. I guess our friends didn't invite us for the after party."

Carter gave him a dirty look. "Escorting dead bodies and filing police reports not exciting enough for you, Fusco?"

Fusco sighed. "You are right. Far be it for me to expect our friends to actually include us on some real action."

"You can always go sit in that bar again."

"Oh, shut up."

 

 

*

 

Finch always thought they were a secret helper of sorts, not one to hang around a crime scene after the deed was taken care of. Looking away from the busy FBI agents making arrests, He shut his laptop with an audible clack, and glanced at Reese. 

"Going home, Mr. Reese?"

Reese quirked the corners of his lips, without looking at him. "A fine idea, Finch."

Noticing their early departure, the FBI agent let go of what he was dealing with and jogged over. Catching up with Reese, Peter holstered his gun, and extended a hand. He was a lot less awkward and more confident this time.

"Thanks."

They shook hands. Reese seemed to be bemused, as it had been very long since he last shook hands with an FBI agent.

"Hey -" Peter started, trying to sound un-accusatory. "I don't suppose I'll be getting any answers, any time soon?"

"I'm afraid not, Agent Burke." Finch spoke up. "In any case, what we do is not usually White Collar's concern."

Peter looked as if he could not decide whether he should be relieved or worried. "Will I likely see either of you again?"

"I hope not," said Finch, earnest.

Peter watched them turn and walk toward the museum, where Reese's car was still parked. 

"John!" He called out. Reese glanced back in surprise. 

Peter waited, and made it unmistakably clear that he wanted Reese to come back so he could have a separate word. Perplexed, Reese took a step closer.

"Now I may know a fellow agent when I see one," said Peter, referring back to the first conversation he'd ever had with Reese, just a couple of nights ago. "But I also know a troubled agent when I see one."

Reese said nothing, his face unreadable. For a moment he thought he was going to get a speech from the agent who clearly held pride in his moral high road, and he almost had a witty remark at the ready, but no such speech was forthcoming. Peter simply searched his face for a long time, and, in an act of once-familiar now-forlorn affinity, patted his back.

"Try to stay alive. For his sake."

Leaving one last appreciative glance at the two men standing on the sidewalk, Peter turned and strode back to the crime scene, where his White Collar friends stood, waiting.

 

 

*

 

"What was that about?" asked Neal, when the backup task force joined them, and they finally got a moment to themselves.

"Nothing." Peter watched absently as Jones and Diana grabbed the last of the mobsters and shoved them into the car. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah, it is." Neal was eyeing him closely, with a curious expression on his face, that slowly turned smug. "Are you still naked underneath?"

"Oh god." Peter snapped back into attention, a slight panic on the edge of his voice. "I can't go back to the bureau like this. I'll never hear the end of it!"

"We could always make a shopping stop near one of the hotels. They are bound to be open, even at this time of the night." said Neal, hopeful. "That shirt was ready to retire, anyway."

"Ergh." Peter gave him an annoyed look. "If I didn't know better, I'd thought you did that on purpose."

"Do you?" said Neal, a laugh evident in his voice. "Know better?"

Peter peered at him. "Next time, just ask."

 

 

*

 

Away from the sirens and the police commotion, two men strode down the street in companionable silence. The taller man in a suit glanced at his partner.

"Don't ever do that again."

"Do what, Mr. Reese?" 

"Pair me up with a stranger. I'm very particular about my partners, Finch." 

A brief, bemused pause.

"I hope you understand why I did it, Mr. Reese."

"I'm sure I do. Don't do it again."

If Finch laughed inwardly, he didn't show. A few minutes of comfortable silence passed before Reese spoke up again.

"Is it true, Finch?"

"What is it this time, Mr. Reese?"

Reese spared him a glance. "That keeping me deliberately in danger took more courage than keeping me out of it."

Finch's gaze dropped to the ground. 

"I'm not sure about courage, Mr. Reese. But it definitely takes more faith."

"Faith that I can take care of myself?"

"Faith that _we_ can take care of _ourselves_ ," said Finch, oddly firm.

Something warm unfolded in his chest. Reese smiled. Finch regarded him curiously.

”- Which reminds me. About that contingency plan, Mr. Reese.“ 

"Yes, Finch?"

"What exactly is it? To turn up on time, every time?" 

"A good plan as any, Finch."

"And if you don't?" Finch looked up, eyes beseeching.

"Well." Reese's lips quirked to a smile again. They went around a corner, and the forsaken city library stood in front of them, silent, all-knowing, inviting. Reese turned and met the other man's gaze, his eyes intense, almost ablaze under the warm glow of the streetlight. 

 "Seeing how I don't have the ability to turn over the world byte by byte like you, Harold, I'll just have to slash and burn."

 

 

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That's it for the case. Let me know if you didn't understand anything - I wrote the second half of the story in one breathless go and I really do hope there were no major plot holes. Please be so kind and overlook things like why the mobsters were quite stupid, cos, I needed them to, darn it. XD
> 
> To WC lovers: sorry I couldn't fit Elizabeth in there. Or our lovely Satchmo. Though the idea of Satchmo getting along with Bear is an interesting one...
> 
> I know this isn't very slashy, and could be considerd pre-slash, but I'm a banter kind of person, not pour-your-heart-out kind of person. As you will probably have noticed, I leave a lot to the imagining. Conversations and looks and smiles, and that's pretty much it. There will probably be more slashy epilogues and sequels... if people so feel inclined. I really enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Oh, Moriarty, you say? Well, yes, that will be a story for another day. (I may even make it into a series).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the ride, and please do let me know what you think! :D


End file.
